MODERN  CLASSICS.      ^^^ 


The  convenient  little  volumes  published  under 
this  general  title,  are  in  the  best  sense  classic  though 
all  of  them  are  modern.  They  include  selections 
from  the  works  of  the  most  eminent  writers  of  Eng- 
land and  America,  and  translations  of  several  mas- 
terpieces by  continental  authors. 

These  selections  are  not  what  are  generally  known 
as  "elegant  extracts,"  single  paragraphs  which  are 
peculiarly  quotable  ;  but  they  consist  in  most  cases 
of  entire  poems,  essays,  sketches,  and  stories.  The 
authors  are  not  only  shown  at  their  best,  but  so 
fully  as  to  give  an  adequate  idea  of  their  various 
styles,  modes  of  thought,  and  distinguishing  traits. 

In  several  instances  the  selections  from  an  author 
are  accompanied  by  a  biographical  or  critical  essay 
from  another  writer,  —  an  arrangement  which  cannot 
fail  to  lend  additional  interest  both  to  the  essay  and 
to  the  selections,  especially  when  the  books  are 
used  in  schools.  The  choice  character  of  the  selec- 
tions in  these  volumes  makes  them  peculiarly  suit- 
able for  use  in  schools  for  supplementary  reading  ; 
as  indeed  it  also  makes  them  peculiarly  desirable 
for  household  libraries. 


MODERN   CLASSICS, 


The  list  of  Tolumes  now  ready  is  as  follows :  — 
I.   Evangeline.  ) 

The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish.  >  Longfelixiw. 

Favorite  Poems.  ) 

a.    Culture,  Behavior,  Beauty.  J 

Books,  Art,  Eloquence.        |  Emerson. 

Power,  Wealth,  Illusions.    ) 
J.    Nature.  _  ) 

Love,  Friendship,  Domestic  Life.  >  Emersoh. 

Success,  Greatness,  Immortality.  ) 


Snow-Bound  ) 


The  Tent  on  the  Beach.  >  Whittieb- 
Favorite  Poems.  ) 

5,  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal.  ) 

The  Cathedral.  |  Lowell. 

Favorite  Poems.  ) 

6.  In  and  Out  of  Doors  with  Charles  Dickens.     Fields. 
A  Christmas  Carol.    Dickens. 

Barry  Cornwall  and  some  of  his  Friends.     FtBLos. 


The  Ancient  Mariner.  1 -->. „ 

Favorite  Poems.  }  Coleridge. 

Favorite  Poems.    Wordsworth. 

Undine.  )  t- ^ 

Sintram.  J  ^°"Q"«- 

Paul  and  Virginia.     St.  Pierre. 

Rab  and  his  Friends;  Marjorie  Fleming.  ) 

Thackeray.  \  Dr.  John  Browii 

John  Leech.  ) 

Enoch  Arden.     ) 

In  Memoriam.     >  Tbnnysos. 

Favorite  Poems. ) 

See  page  opposite  inside  of  last  caver. 


^^oticrn  Cla^^ifiS? 


THACKERAY'S    LIGHTER 
HOURS 


BEING  SELECTIONS   FROM  THE 
MINOR  WRITINGS 


OF 
WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY 


BOSTON    AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 


Stack 

/8^o 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


CONTENTS. 


— • — 

Page 
DR.   BIRCH  AND  HIS  YOUNG  FRIENDS. 

Tbe  Doctor  and  his  Staff  ......  5 

The  Cock  of  the  School  ......  9 

The  Dear  Brothers 14 

The  Little  School-Room 15 

A  Hopeless  Case 17 

A  Word  about  Miss  Birch 21 

A  Tragedy             26 

Briggs  in  Luck                  2B 

A  Young  Fellow  who  is  pretty  sure  to  succeed     .  29 

Duval  the  Pir.\tb 33 

The  Dormitories .34 

A  Capture  and  a  Rescue 35 

The  Garden .37 

The  Old  Pupil    .        .               40 

Epilogue 46 

THE  BOOK  OF  SNOBS. 

Prefatory  Remarks 50 

The  Snob  playfully  Dealt  with         ...  56 

ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS. 

Thorns  in  the  Cushion 64 

On  Screens  in  Dining-Rooms 79 

Tlnbridge  Toys          .......  92 

De  Juvektuie         .        =               -        c        s        .  103 


IV  CONTENTS. 

Roundabout  the  Christmas-Tree     ....      129 

On  being  found  out 144 

Ogres  *.        .        . 156 

Nil  Nisi  Bonum ,  170 

De  Finibus ,      185 

Actour  de  Mon  Chapeao  .....  202 

The  Last  Sketch        .......      220 

THE  CURATE'S  WALK  .  .        .        *  227 


DOCTOR   BIRCH  AND  HIS 
YOUNG   FRIENDS. 


THE  DOCTOR  AND  HIS  STAFF.  ' 

IK*S|HERE  is  no  need  to  say  why  I  became 
M^^  assistant-master  and  professor  of  the 
English  and  French  languages,  flower- 
painting,  and  the  German  flute,  in  Dr.  Birch's 
Academy,  at  Rodwell  Regis.  Good  folks  may 
depend  on  this,  that  it  was  not  for  choice  that  I 
left  lodgings  near  London,  and  a  genteel  society, 
for  an  under-master' s  desk  in  that  old  school. 
I  promise  you  the  fare  at  the  usher's  table,  the 
getting  up  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the 
walking  out  with  little  boys  in  the  fields  (who 
used  to  play  me  tricks,  and  never  could  be 
got  to  respect  my  awful  and  responsible  char- 
acter as  teacher  in  the  school).  Miss  Birch's 
vulgar  insolence,  Jack  Birch's  glum  condescen- 
sion, and  the  poor  old  Doctor's  patronage,  were 
not  matters  in  themselves  pleasurable  :  and 
that   that   patronage  and   those   dinners  were 


6  THACKERAY. 

sometimes  cruel  hard  to  swallow.  Never  mind 
—  my  connection  with  the  place  is  over  now, 
and  I  hope  they  have  got  a  more  efficient  un- 
der-master. 

Jack  Birch  (Rev.  J.  Birch,  of  St.  Neot's 
Hall,  Oxford)  is  partner  with  his  father  the 
Doctor,  and  takes  some  of  the  classes.  About 
his  Greek  I  can't  say  much  ;  but  I  will  construe 
him  in  Latin  any  day.  A  more  supercilious 
little  prig  (giving  himself  airs,  too,  about  his 
cousin,  Miss  Raby,  who  lives  with  the  Doctor), 
a  more  empty,  pompous  little  coxcomb  I  never 
saw.  His  white  neck -cloth  looked  as  if  it 
choked  him.  He  used  to  try  and  look  over 
that  starch  upon  me  and  Prince  the  assistant, 
as  if  we  were  a  couple  of  footmen.  He  did  n't 
do  much  busmess  in  the  school  ;  but  occupied 
his  time  in  writing  sanctified  letters  to  the  boys' 
parents,  and  in  composing  dreary  sermons  to 
preach  to  them. 

The  real  master  of  the  school  is  Prince  ;  an 
Oxford  man  too  ;  shy,  haughty,  and  learned  ; 
crammed  with  Greek  and  a  quantity  of  useless 
learning  ;  uncommonly  kind  to  the  small  boys  ; 
pitiless  with  the  fools  and  the  braggarts  ;  re- 
spected of  all  for  his  honesty,  his  learning,  his 
bravery  (for  he  hit  out  once  in  a  boat-row  in  a 
way  which  astonished  the  boys  and  the  barge- 


DOCTOR   BIRCH.  7 

men),  and  for  a  latent  power  about  him,  which  all 
saw  and  confessed  somehow.  Jack  Birch  could 
never  look  him  in  the  face.  Old  Miss  Z.  dared 
not  put  off  any  of  her  airs  upon  him.  Miss 
Rosa  made  him  the  lowest  of  courtesies.  Miss 
Raby  said  she  was  afraid  of  him.  Good  old 
Prince  !  we  have  sat  many  a  night  smoking  in 
the  Doctor's  harness-room,  whither  we  retired 
when  our  boys  were  gone  to  bed,  and  our  cares 
and  canes  put  by. 

After  Jack  Birch  had  taken  his  degree  at 
Oxford  —  a  process  which  he  effected  with  great 
difficulty  —  this  place,  which  used  to  be  called 
"  Birch's,"  "  Dr.  Birch's  Academy,"  and  what 
not,  became  suddenly  "  Archbishop  Wigsby's 
College  of  Rodwell  Regis."  They  took  down 
the  old  blue  board  with  the  gold  letters,  which 
has  been  used  to  mend  the  pigsty  since.  Birch 
had  a  large  school-room  run  up  in  the  Gothic 
taste,  with  statuettes,  and  a  little  belfry,  and  a 
bust  of  Archbishop  Wigsby  in  the  middle  of 
the  school.  He  put  the  six  senior  boys  into 
caps  and  gowns,  which  had  rather  a  good  effect 
as  the  lads  sauntered  down  the  street  of  the 
town,  but  which  certainly  provoked  the  con- 
tempt and  hostility  of  the  bargemen  ;  and  so 
great  was  his  rage  for  academic  costumes  and 
ordinances,  that  he  would  have  put  me  myself 


8  THACKEKAY. 

into  a  lay  gown,  with  red  knots  and  fringes, 
but  that  I  flatly  resisted  and  said  that  a  writing- 
master  had  no  business  with  such  paraphernalia. 
By  the  way,  I  have  forgotten  to  mention  the 
Doctor  himself.  And  what  shall  I  say  of  him  ? 
Well,  he  has  a  very  crisp  gown  and  bands,  a 
solemn  aspect,  a  tremendous  loud  voice,  and  a 
grand  air  with  the  boys'  parents  ;  whom  he  re- 
ceives in  a  study  covered  round  with  the  best- 
bound  books,  which  imposes  upon  many  —  upon 
the  women  especially  —  and  makes  them  fancy 
that  this  is  a  Doctor  indeed.  But  law  bless 
you  !  He  never  reads  the  books,  nor  opens  one 
of  them  ;  except  that  in  which  he  keeps  his 
bands  —  a  Dugdale's  "  Monasticon,"  which 
looks  like  a  book,  but  is  in  reality  a  cupboard, 
where  he  has  his  port,  almond-cakes,  and  de- 
canter of  wine.  He  gets  up  his  classics  with 
translations,  or  what  the  boys  call  cribs  ;  they 
pass  wicked  tricks  upon  him  when  he  hears  the 
forms.  The  elder  wags  go  to  liis  study  and 
ask  him  to  help  them  in  hard  bits  of  Herodotus 
or  Thucydides  ;  he  says  he  will  look  over  the 
passage,  and  flies  for  refuge  to  Mr.  Prince,  or 
to  the  crib.  He  keeps  the  flogging  department 
in  his  own  hands,  finding  that  his  son  was  too 
savage.  He  has  awful  brows  and  a  big  voice. 
But  his  roar  frightens  nobody.  It  is  only  a 
lion's  skin  ;  or,  so  to  say,  a  muff. 


DOCTOR   BIRCH.  9 

Little  Mordant  made  a  picture  of  him  with 
large  ears,  like  a  well-known  domestic  animal, 
and  had  his  own  justly  boxed  for  the  caricature. 
The  Doctor  discovered  him  in  the  fact,  and  was 
in  a  flaming  rage,  and  threatened  whipping  at 
first  ;  but  in  the  course  of  the  day  an  opportune 
basket  of  game  arriving  from  Mordant's  father, 
the  Doctor  became  mollified,  and  has  burnt  the 
picture  with  the  ears.  However,  I  have  one 
wafered  up  in  my  desk  by  the  hand  of  the  same 
little  rascal. 


THE  COCK  OF  THE  SCHOOL. 

I  AM  growing  an  old  fellow,  and  have  seen 
many  great  folks  in  the  course  of  my  travels 
and  time  :  Louis  Philippe  coming  out  of  the 
Tuileries  ;  his  Majesty  the  King  of  Prussia  and 
the  Reichsverweser  accolading  each  other  at 
Cologne  at  my  elbow  ;  Admiral  Sir  Charles 
Napier  (in  an  omnibus  once),  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  the  immortal  Goethe  at  Weimar, 
the  late  benevolent  Pope  Gregory  XVL,  and  a 
score  more  of  the  famous  in  this  world — the 
whom  whenever  one  looks  at,  one  has  a  mild 
shock  of  awe  and  tremor.  I  like  this  feeling 
and  decent  fear  and  trembling  with  which  a 
modest  spirit  salutes  a  Great  Man. 


10  THACKERAY. 

Well,  I  have  seen  generals  capering  on  horse- 
back at  the  head  of  their  crimson  battalions  ; 
bishops  sailing  down  cathedral  aisles,  with 
downcast  eyes,  pressing  their  trencher  caps  to 
their  hearts  with'  their  fat  white  hands  ;  college 
heads  when  her  Majesty  is  on  a  visit  ;  the 
Doctor  in  all  his  glory  at  the  head  of  his  school 
on  speech-day  ;  a  great  sight  and  all  great  men 
these.  I  have  never  met  the  late  Mr,  Thomas 
Cribb,  but  I  have  no  doubt  should  have  regarded 
liim  with  the  same  feeling  of  awe  with  which  I 
look  every  day  at  George  Champion,  the  Cock 
of  Doctor  Birch's  school. 

When,  I  say,  I  reflect  as  I  go  up  and  set  him 
a  sum,  that  he  could  whop  me  in  two  minutes, 
double  up  Prince  and  the  other  assistant,  and 
pitch  the  Doctor  out  of  the  window,  I  can't  but 
think  how  great,  how  generous,  how  magnani- 
mous a  creature  this  is  that  sits  quite  quiet  and 
good-natured,  and  works  his  equation,  and 
ponders  through  his  Greek  play.  He  might 
take  the  school-room  pillars  and  pull  the  house 
down  if  he  liked.  He  might  close  the  door, 
and  demolish  every  one  of  us,  like  Antar,  the 
lover  of  Ibla  ;  but  he  lets  us  live.  He  never 
thrashes  anybody  without  a  cause  ;  when  woe 
betide  the  tyrant  or  the  sneak  ! 

I  think  that  to  be  strong  and  able  to  whop 


DOCTOR    BIRCH.  11 

everybody  —  not  to  do  it,  mind  you,  but  to 
feel  that  you  are  able  to  do  it  —  would  be  the 
greatest  of  all  gifts.  There  is  a  serene  good 
humor  which  plays  about  George  Champion's 
broad  face,  which  shows  the  consciousness  of 
this  power,  and  lights  up  his  honest  blue  eyes 
with  a  magnanimous  calm. 

He  is  invictus.  Even  when  a  cub  there  was 
no  beating  this  lion.  Six  years  ago  the  un- 
daunted little  warrior  actually  stood  up  to 
Frank  Davison  (the  Indian  officer  now  — 
poor  little  Charley's  brother,  whom  Miss  Raby 
nursed  so  affectionately),  —  then  seventeen 
years  old,  and  the  Cock  of  Birch's.  They  were 
obliged  to  drag  off  the  boy,  and  Frank,  with 
admiration  and  regard  for  him,  prophesied  the 
great  thmgs  he  would  do.  Legends  of  combats 
are  preserved  fondly  in  schools  ;  they  have  sto- 
ries of  such  at  Rodwell  Regis,  performed  in  the 
old  Doctor's  time,  forty  years  ago. 

Champion's  affair  with  the  Young  Tutbury 
Pet,  who  was  down  here  in  training,  —  with 
Black  the  bargeman,  —  with  the  three  head 
boys  of  Doctor  Wapshot's  academy,  whom  he 
caught  maltreating  an  outlying  day-boy  of  ours, 
etc.,  — are  known  to  all  the  Rod  well  Regis  men. 
He  was  always  victorious.  He  is  modest  and 
kind,  like  all  great  men.     He  has  a  good,  brave, 


12  THACKERAY. 

honest  understanding.  He  cannot  make  verses 
like  Young  Finder,  or  read  Greek  like  Wells 
the  Prefect,  who  is  a  perfect  young  abyss  of 
learning,  and  knows  enough.  Prince  says,  to 
furnish  any  six  first-class  men  ;  but  he  does  his 
work  in  a  sound,  downright  way,  and  he  is  made 
to  be  the  bravest  of  soldiers,  the  best  of  country 
parsons,  an  honest  English  gentleman  wherever 
he  may  go. 

Old  Champion's  chief  friend  and  attendant  is 
Young  Jack  Hall,  whom  he  saved,  when  drown- 
ing, out  of  the  Miller's  Pool.  The  attachment 
of  the  two  is  curious  to  witness.  The  smaller 
lad  gamboling,  playing  tricks  round  the  bigger 
one,  and  perpetually  making  fun  of  his  pro- 
tector. They  are  never  far  apart,  and  of  holi- 
days you  may  meet  them  miles  away  from  the 
school,  —  George  sauntering  heavily  down  the 
lanes  with  his  big  stick,  and  little  Jack  larking 
with  the  pretty  girls  in  the  cottage  windows. 

George  has  a  boat  on  the  river,  in  which, 
however,  he  commonly  lies  smoking,  whilst 
Jack  sculls  him.  He  does  not  play  at  cricket, 
except  when  the  school  plays  the  county  or  at 
Lord's  in  the  holidays.  The  boys  can't  stand 
his  bowling,  and  when  he  hits,  it  is  like  trying 
to  catch  a  cannon-ball.  I  have  seen  him  at 
tennis.     It  is  a  splendid  sight   to  behold   the 


DOCTOR    BIRCH.  13 

young  fellow  bounding  over  the  court  with 
streaming  yellow  hair,  like  young  Apollo  in  a 
flannel  jacket. 

The  other  head  boys  are  Lawrence,  the  cap- 
tain ;  Bunce,  famous  chiefly  for  his  magnificent 
appetite  ;  and  Pitman,  surnamed  Roscius,  for 
his  love  of  the  drama.  Add  to  these  Swanky, 
called  Macassar,  from  his  partiality  to  that 
condiment,  and  who  has  varnished  boots,  wears 
white  gloves  on  Sundays,  and  looks  out  for  Miss 
Pinkerton's  school  (transferred  from  Chiswick 
to  Rodwell  Regis,  and  conducted  by  the  nieces 
of  the  late  Miss  Barbara  Pinkerton,  the  friend 
of  our  great  lexicographer,  upon  the  principles 
approved  by  him,  and  practiced  by  that  admi- 
rable woman)  as  it  passes  into  church. 

Representations  have  been  made  concerning 
Mr.  Horace  Swanky's  behavior  ;  rumors  have 
been  uttered  about  notes  in  verse,  conveyed  in 
three-cornered  puffs,  by  Mrs.  Ruggles,  who 
serves  Miss  Pinkerton's  young  ladies  on  Fridays, 
—  and  how  Miss  Didow,  to  whom  the  tart  and 
inclosure  were  addressed,  tried  to  make  away 
with  herself  by  swallowing  a  ball  of  cotton. 
But  I  pass  over  these  absurd  reports,  as  likely 
to  affect  the  reputation  of  an  admirable  semi- 
nary conducted  by  irreproachable  females.  As 
they  go  into  church,    Miss  P.   driving  in  her 


14  THACKERAY. 

flock  of  lambkins  with  the  crook  of  her  parasol, 
how  can  it  be  helped  if  her  forces  and  ours 
sometimes  collide,  as  the  boys  are  on  their  way 
up  to  the  organ-loft  ?  And  I  don't  believe  a 
word  about  the  three-cornered  puff,  but  rather 
that  it  was  the  invention  of  that  jealous  Miss 
Birch,  who  is  jealous  of  Miss  Raby,  jealous  of 
everybody  who  is  good  and  handsome,  and  who 
has  her  own  ends  in  view,  or  I  am  very  much  in 
error. 


THE   DEAR  BROTHERS. 

a  melodrama  in  several  rounds. 

The  Doctor. 

Mr.  Tipper,  Uncle  to  the  Masters  Boxall. 
BoxALL  Major,  Boxall  Minor,  Brown,  Jones, 
Smith,  Robinson,  Tiffin  Minimus. 

B.  Go  it,  old  Boxall ! 
J.  Give  it  him,  young  Boxall ! 
R.  Pitch  into  him,  old  Boxall  ! 
S.  Two  to  one  on  young  Boxall  ! 

Enter  Tiffin  Minimus,  running. 

Tiffin  Minimus.  —  Boxalls  !  you're  wanted. 
(The  Doctor  to  Mr.  Tipper.)  —  Every  boy  in 
the   school    loves    them,   my   dear  sir ;    your 


DOCTOR    BIRCH.  15 

nephews  are  a  credit  to  my  establishment. 
They  are  orderly,  well-conducted,  gentleman- 
like boys.  Let  us  enter  and  find  them  at  their 
studies. 

Enter  The  Doctor  and  Mr.  Tipper. 

Grand  Tableau. 


THE  LITTLE  SCHOOL-ROOM. 

What  they  call  the  little  school-room  is  a 
small  room  at  the  other  end  of  the  great 
school  ;  through  which  you  go  to  the  Doctor's 
private  house,  and  where  Miss  Raby  sits  with 
her  pupils.  She  has  a  half-dozen  very  small 
ones  over  whom  she  presides  and  teaches  them 
in  her  simple  way,  until  they  are  big  or  learned 
enough  to  face  the  great  school-room.  Many 
of  them  are  in  a  hurry  for  promotion,  the  grace- 
less little  simpletons,  and  know  no  more  than 
their  elders  when  they  are  well  off. 

She  keeps  the  accounts,  writes  out  the  bills, 
superintends  the  linen,  and  sews  on  the  general 
shirt-buttons.  Think  of  having  such  a  woman 
at  home  to  sew  on  one's  shirt-buttons  !  But 
peace,  peace,  thou  foolish  heart  ! 

Miss  Raby  is  the  Doctor's  niece.  Her  mother 
was  a  beauty  (quite  unlike  old  Zoe  therefore)  ; 


16  THACKERAY. 

and  she  married  a  pupil  in  the  old  Doctor's 
time,  who  was  killed  afterwards,  a  captain  in 
the  East  India  service,  at  the  siege  of  Bhurt- 
pore.  Hence  a  number  of  Indian  children  come 
to  the  Doctor's  ;  for  Raby  was  very  much  liked, 
and  the  uncle's  kind  reception  of  the  orphan 
has  been  a  good  speculation  for  the  school- 
keeper. 

It  is  wonderful  how  brightly  and  gayly  that 
little  quick  creature  does  her  duty.  She  is  the 
first  to  rise,  and  the  last  to  sleep,  if  any  business 
is  to  be  done.  She  sees  the  other  two  women 
go  off  to  parties  in  the  town  without  even  go 
much  as  wishing  to  join  them.  It  is  Cinderella, 
only  contented  to  stay  at  home  —  content  to 
bear  Zoe's  scorn  and  to  admit  Rosa's  superior 
charms  —  and  to  do  her  utmost  to  repay  her 
uncle  for  his  great  kindness  in  housing  her. 

So  you  see  she  works  as  much  as  three  maid- 
servants for  the  wages  of  one.  She  is  as  thank- 
ful when  the  Doctor  gives  her  a  new  gown,  as 
if  he  had  presented  her  with  a  fortune  ;  laughs 
at  his  stories  most  good-humoredly,  listens  to 
Zoe's  scolding  most  meekly,  admires  Rosa  with 
all  her  heart,  and  only  goes  out  of  the  way 
when  Jack  Birch  shows  his  sallow  face  ;  for  she 
can't  bear  him,  and  always  finds  work  when  he 
comes  near. 


DOCTOR    BIRCH.  17 

How  different  she  is  when  some  folks  ap- 
proach her  !  I  won't  be  presumptuous  ;  but  I 
think,  I  think,  I  have  made  a  not  unfavorable 
impression  in  some  quarters.  However,  let  us 
be  mum  on  this  subject.  I  like  to  see  her,  be- 
cause she  always  looks  good-humored  :  because 
she  is  always  kind,  because  she  is  always  modest, 
because  she  is  fond  of  those  poor  little  brats  — 
orphans  some  of  them,  —  because  she  is  rather 
pretty,  I  dare  say,  or  because  I  think  so,  which 
comes  to  the  same  thing. 

Though  she  is  kind  to  all,  it  must  be  owned 
she  shows  the  most  gross  favoritism  towards 
the  amiable  children.  She  brings  them  cakes 
from  dessert,  and  regales  them  with  Zoe's  pre- 
serves ;  spends  many  of  her  little  shillings  in 
presents  for  her  favorites,  and  will  tell  them 
stories  by  the  hour.  She  has  one  very  sad 
story  about  a  little  boy  who  died  long  ago  :  the 
younger  children  are  never  weary  of  hearing 
about  him  ;  and  Miss  Raby  has  shown  to  one  of 
them  a  lock  of  the  little  chap's  hair,  which  she 
keeps  in  her  work-box  to  this  day. 


A  HOPELESS  CASE. 

Let  us,  people  who  are  so  uncommonly  clever 
and  learned,  have  a  great  tenderness  and  pity 


18  THACKERAY. 

for  the  poor  folks  who  are  not  endowed  with 
the  prodigious  talents  which  we  have.  I  have 
always  had  a  regard  for  dunces  ;  —  those  of  my 
own  school-days  were  amongst  the  pleasantest 
of  the  fellows,  and  have  turned  out  by  no  means 
the  dullest  in  life  ;  whereas  many  a  youth  who 
could  turn  off  Latin  hexameters  by  the  yard, 
and  construe  Greek  quite  glibly,  is  no  better 
'than  a  feeble  prig  now,  with  not  a  pennyworth 
more  brains  than  were  in  his  head  before  his 
beard  grew. 

Those  poor  dunces  !  Talk  of  being  the  last 
man,  ah  !  what  a  pang  it  must  be  to  be  the  last 
boy  —  huge,  misshapen,  fourteen  years  of  age, 
and  "  taken  up  "  by  a  chap  who  is  but  six  years 
old,  and  can't  speak  quite  plain  yet ! 

Master  Hulker  is  in  that  condition  at  Birch's. 
He  is  the  most  honest,  kind,  active,  plucky, 
generous  creature.  He  can  do  many  things 
better  than  most  boys.  He  can  go  up  a  tree, 
pump,  play  at  cricket,  dive  and  swim  perfectly 
—  he  can  eat  twice  as  much  as  almost  any  lady 
(as  Miss  Birch  well  knows),  he  has  a  pretty 
talent  at  carving  figures  with  his  hack-knife,  he 
makes  and  paints  little  coaches,  he  can  take  a 
watch  to  pieces  and  put  it  together  again.  He 
can  do  everything  but  learn  his  lessons ;  and 
then  he  sticks  at  the  bottom  of  the  school  hope- 


DOCTOR    BIRCH.  19 

less.  As  the  little  boys  are  drafted  in  from 
Miss  Raby's  class  (it  is  true  she  is  one  of  the 
best  instructresses  in  the  world),  they  enter  and 
hop  over  poor  Hulker.  He  would  be  handed 
over  to  the  governess,  only  he  is  too  big.  Some- 
times I  used  to  think  that  this  desperate  stu- 
pidity was  a  stratagem  of  the  poor  rascal's,  and 
that  he  shammed  dullness,  so  that  he  might  be 
degraded  into  Miss  Raby's  class  —  if  she  would 
teach  me,  I  know,  before  George,  I  would  put 
on  a  pinafore  and  a  little  jacket  —  but  no,  it  is 
a  natural  incapacity  for  the  Latin  Grammar. 

If  you  could  see  his  grammar,  it  is  a  perfect 
curiosity  of  dog's  ears.  The  leaves  and  cover 
are  all  curled  and  ragged.  Many  of  the  pages 
are  worn  away  with  the  rubbing  of  his  elbows 
as  he  sits  poring  over  the  hopeless  volume,  with 
the  blows  of  his  fists  as  he  thumps  it  madly, 
or  vnth  the  poor  fellow's  tears.  You  see  him 
wiping  them  away  with  the  back  of  his  hand, 
as  he  tries  and  tries,  and  can't  do  it. 

When  I  think  of  that  Latin  Grammar,  and 
that  infernal  As  in  prsesenti,  and  of  other 
things  which  I  was  made  to  leam  iu  my  youth, 
upon  my  conscience,  I  am  surprised  that  we 
ever  survived  it.  When  one  thinks  of  the  boys 
who  have  been  caned  because  they  could  not 
master   that   intolerable  jargon  !    Good  Lord, 


20  THACKEKAY. 

what  a  pitiful  chorus  these  poor  little  creatures 
send  up  !  Be  gentle  with  them,  ye  school- 
masters, and  only  whop  those  who  won^t  learn. 

The  Doctor  has  operated  upon  Hulker  (be- 
tween ourselves),  but  the  boy  was  so  little  af- 
fected you  would  have  thought  he  had  taken 
chloroform.  Birch  is  weary  of  whipping  now, 
and  leaves  the  boy  to  go  his  own  gait.  Prince, 
when  he  hears  the  lesson,  and  who  cannot  help 
making  fun  of  a  fool,  adopts  the  sarcastic  man- 
ner with  Master  Hulker,  and  says,  "  Mr.  Hulker, 
may  I  take  the  liberty  to  inquire  if  your  bril- 
liant intellect  has  enabled  you  to  perceive  the 
difference  between  those  words  which  gramma- 
rians have  deJBned  as  substantive  and  adjective 
nouns  ?  if  not,  perhaps  Mr.  Ferdinand  Timmins 
will  instruct  you."  And  Timmins  hops  over 
Hulker's  head. 

I  wish  Prince  would  leave  off  girding  at  the 
poor  lad.  He  is  a  boy,  and  his  mother  is  a 
widow  woman,  who  loves  him  with  all  her 
might.  There  is  a  famous  sneer  about  the 
suckling  of  fools  and  the  chronicling  of  small 
beer  ;  but  remember  it  was  a  rascal  who  ut- 
tered it. 


DOCTOR   BIRCH.  21 


A  WORD  ABOUT  MISS  BIRCH. 

*'  The  gentlemen,  and  especially  the  younger 
and  more  tender  of  these  pupils,  will  have  the 
advantage  of  the  constant  supermtendence  and 
affectionate  care  of  Miss  Zoe  Birch,  sister  of 
the  principal,  whose  dearest  aim  will  be  to 
supply  (as  far  as  may  be)  the  absent  maternal 
friend."  —  Prospectus  of  Rodwell  Regis  School. 

This  is  all  very  well  in  the  Doctor's  prospec- 
tus, and  Miss  Zoe  Birch  —  (a  pretty  blossom 
it  is,  fifty-five  years  old,  during  two  score  of 
which  she  has  dosed  herself  with  pills  ;  with  a 
nose  as  red  and  a  face  as  sour  as  a  crab-apple) 
—  this  is  all  mighty  well  in  a  prospectus.  But 
I  should  like  to  know  who  would  take  Miss  Zoe 
for  a  mother,  or  would  have  her  for  one  ? 

The  only  persons  in  the  house  who  are  not 
afraid  of  her  are  Miss  Rosa  and  I  —  no,  I  am 
afraid  of  her,  though  I  do  know  the  story  about 
the  French  usher  in  1830  —  but  all  the  rest 
tremble  before  the  woman,  from  the  Doctor 
down  to  poor  Francis,  the  knife-boy,  whom  she 
bullies  into  his  miserable  blacking-hole. 

The  Doctor  is  a  pompous  and  outwardly 
severe  man  —  but  inwardly  weak  and  easy  ; 
loving  a  joke  and  a  glass  of  port-mne.     I  get 


22  THACKERAY. 

on  with  him,  therefore,  much  better  than  Mr. 
Prince,  who  scorns  him  for  an  ass,  and  under 
whose  keen  eyes  the  worthy  Doctor  writhes  like 
a  convicted  impostor  ;  and  many  a  sunshiny 
afternoon  would  he  have  said,  "Mr.  T.,  sir, 
shall  we  try  another  glass  of  that  yellow  sealed 
wine  which  you  seem  to  like  ?  "  (and  which  he 
likes  even  better  than  I  do)  had  not  the  old 
harridan  of  a  Zoe  been  down  upon  us,  and  in- 
sisted on  turning  me  out  with  her  abominable 
weak  coffee.  She  a  mother,  indeed  !  A  sour- 
milk  generation  she  would  have  nursed.  She 
is  always  croaking,  scolding,  bullying  —  yowling 
at  the  housemaids,  snarling  at  Miss  Raby, 
bowwowing  after  the  little  boys,  barking  after 
the  big  ones.  She  knows  how  much  every  boy 
eats  to  an  ounce  ;  and  her  delight  is  to  ply  with 
fat  the  little  ones  who  can't  bear  it,  and  with 
raw  meat  those  who  hate  underdone.  It  was 
she  who  caused  the  Doctor  to  be  eaten  out 
three  times  ;  and  nearly  created  a  rebellion  in 
the  school  because  she  insisted  on  his  flogging 
Goliath  Longman. 

The  only  time  that  woman  is  happy  is  when 
she  comes  in  of  a  morning  to  the  little  boys' 
dormitories  with  a  cup  of  hot  Epsom  salts,  and 
a  sippet  of  bread.  Boo  !  —  the  very  notion 
makes  me  quiver.     She  stands  over  them.     I 


DOCTOR    BIRCH.  23 

saw  her  do  it  to  young  Byles  only  a  few  days 
since  ;  and  her  presence  makes  the  abomination 
doubly  abominable. 

As  for  attending  them  in  real  illness,  do  you 
suppose  that  she  would  watch  a  single  night 
for  any  one  of  them  ?  Not  she.  When  poor 
little  Charley  Davison  (that  child  a  lock  of 
whose  soft  hair  I  have  said  how  Miss  Raby  still 
keeps)  lay  ill  of  scarlet  fever  in  the  holidays  — 
for  the  Colonel,  the  father  of  these  boys,  was 
in  India  —  it  was  Anne  Raby  who  tended  the 
child,  who  watched  him  all  through  the  fever, 
who  never  left  him  while  it  lasted,  or  until  she 
had  closed  the  little  eyes  that  were  never  to 
brighten  or  moisten  more.  Anne  watched  and 
deplored  him  ;  but  it  was  Miss  Birch  who 
wrote  the  letter  announcing  his  demise,  and  got 
the  gold  chain  and  locket  which  the  Colonel 
ordered  as  a  memento  of  his  gratitude.  It  was 
through  a  row  with  Miss  Birch  that  Frank 
Davison  ran  away.  I  promise  you  that  after 
he-  joined  his  regiment  in  India,  the  Ahmednug- 
gur  Irregulars,  which  his  gallant  father  com- 
mands, there  came  over  no  more  annual  shawls 
and  presents  to  Dr.  and  Miss  Birch  ;  and  that 
if  she  fancied  the  Colonel  was  coming  home  to 
marry  her  (on  account  of  her  tenderness  to  his 
motherless    children,    which    he    was    always 


24  THACKERAY. 

writing  about),  that  uotion  was  very  soon  given 
up.  But  these  affaiis  are  of  early  date,  seven 
years  back,  and  I  only  heard  of  them  in  a  very 
confused  manner  from  Miss  Raby,  who  was  a 
girl,  and  had  just  come  to  Rodwell  Kegis.  She 
is  always  very  much  moved  when  she  speaks 
about  those  boys  ;  which  is  but  seldom.  I  take 
it  the  death  of  the  little  one  still  grieves  her 
tender  heart. 

Yes,  it  is  Miss  Birch  who  has  turned  away 
seventeen  ushers  and  second-masters  in  eleven 
years,  and  half  as  many  French  masters,  I  sup- 
pose, since  the  departure  of  her  favorite,  M. 
Grinche,  with  her  gold  watch,  etc.  ;  but  this  is 
only  surmise  —  that  is,  from  hearsay,  and  from 
Miss  Rosa  taunting  her  aunt,  as  she  does  some- 
times, in  her  graceful  way  ;  but  besides  this,  I 
have  another  way  of  keeping  her  in  order. 

Whenever  she  is  particularly  odious  or  inso- 
lent to  Miss  Raby,  I  have  but  to  introduce 
raspberry  jam  into  the  conversation,  and  the 
woman  holds  her  tongue.  She  will  understand 
me.     I  need  not  say  more. 

Note,  \2ih  December.  —  I  may  speak  now. 
I  have  left  the  place  and  don't  mind.  I  say 
then  at  once,  and  without  caring  twopence  for 
the  consequences,  that  I  saw  this  woman,  tliis 
mother  of  the  boys,  eating  jam  with  a  spoon 


DOCTOR   BIRCH.  25 

OUT  OF  Master  Wiggins's  trunk  in  the 
BOX-ROOM  :  and  of  this  I  am  ready  to  take  an 
affidavit  any  day. 

A  TRAGEDY. 

THE    DRAMA    OUGHT    TO    BE    REPRESENTED    IN 
ABOUT  SIX  ACTS. 

[The  school  is  hushed.  Lawtience  the  Prefect^ 
and  Gustos  of  the  rodsy  is  marching  after 
the  Doctor  into  the  operating-room. 

Master  Backhouse  is  about  tofollow.~\ 

Master  Backhouse.  —  It 's  all  very  well,  but 
you  see  if  I  don't  pay  yoii  out  after  school  — 
you  sneak  you  ! 

Master  Lurcher.  —  If  you  do  I  '11  tell  again. 

[Exit  Backhouse. 
[The  rod  is  heard  from  the  adjoining  apart- 
ment.    Hivish  —  hwish  —  hicish  —  hwish 
—  hwish  —  hwish  —  hwish  ! 
Re-enter  Backhouse. 


26  THACKERAY. 


BRIGGS  IN  LUCK. 

Enter  the  Knife-hoy.  —  Hamper  for  Briggses  ! 
Master  Brown.  —  Hurray,  Tom  Briggs  !     I  '11 
lend  you  my  knife. 


If  this  story  does  not  carry  its  own  moral, 
what  fable  does,  I  wonder  ?  Before  the  arrival 
of  that  hamper,  Master  Briggs  was  in  no  better 
repute  than  any  other  young  gentleman  of  the 
lower  school  ;  and  in  fact  I  had  occasion  my- 
self, only  lately,  to  correct  Master  Brown  for 
kicking  his  friend's  shins  during  the  writing- 
lesson.  But  how  this  basket,  directed  by  his 
mother's  housekeeper  and  marked  "  Glass  with 
care  "  (whence  I  conclude  that  it  contains  some 
jam  and  some  bottles  of  wine,  probably,  as  well 
as  the  usual  cake  and  game-pie,  and  half  a 
sovereign  for  the  elder  Master  B.,  and  five  new 
shillings  for  Master  Decimus  Briggs)  —  how,  I 
say,  the  arrival  of  this  basket  alters  all  Master 
Briggs's  circumstances  in  life,  and  the  estima- 
tion in  which  many  persons  regard  him  ! 

If  he  is  a  good-hearted  boy,  as  I  have  reason 
to  til  ink,  the  very  first  thing  he  will  do,  before 
inspecting  the  contents  of  the  hamper,  or  cut- 
ting iuto  them  with   the  knife   which  Master 


DOCTOR    BIRCH.  27 

Brown  has  so  considerately  lent  him,  will  be  to 
read  over  the  letter  from  home  which  lies  on 
the  top  of  the  parcel.  He  does  so,  as  I  remark 
to  Miss  Raby  (for  whom  I  happen  to  be  mend- 
ing pens  when  the  little  circumstance  arose), 
with  a  flushed  face  and  winking  eyes.  Look 
how  the  other  boys  are  peering  into  the  bas- 
ket as  he  reads.  —  I  say  to  her,  "  Is  n't  it  a 
pretty  picture?"  Part  of  the  letter  is  in  a 
very  large  hand.  This  is  from  his  little  sister. 
And  I  would  wager  that  she  netted  the  little 
purse  which  he  has  just  taken  out  of  it,  and 
which  Master  Lynx  is  eying. 

"  You  are  a  droll  man,  and  remark  all  sorts 
of  queer  things,"  Miss  Raby  says,  smiling,  and 
plying  her  swift  needle  and  fingers  as  quick  as 
possible. 

"  I  am  glad  we  are  both  on  the  spot,  and  that 
the  little  fellow  lies  under  our  guns  as  it  were, 
and  so  is  protected  from  some  such  brutal 
school-pirate  as  young  Duval  for  instance,  who 
would  rob  him,  probably,  of  some  of  those  good 
things  ;  good  in  themselves,  and  better  because 
fresh  from  home.  See,  there  is  a  pie  as  I  said, 
and  which  I  dare  say  is  better  than  those  which 
are  served  at  our  table  (but  you  never  take  any 
notice  of  such  kind  of  things.  Miss  Raby),  a 
cake  of  course,  a  bottle  of  currant-wine,  jam- 


28  THACKEKAY. 

pots,  and  no  end  of  pears  in  the  straw.  With 
their  money  little  Briggs  will  be  able  to  pay 
the  tick  which  that  imprudent  child  has  run  up 
with  Mrs.  liuggles  ;  and  1  shall  let  Briggs 
Major  pay  for  the  pencil-case  which  Bullock 
sold  to  him.  —  It  will  be  a  lesson  to  the  young 
prodigal  for  the  future.  But  I  say,  what  a 
change  there  will  be  in  his  life  for  some  time 
to  come,  and  at  least  until  his  present  wealth  is 
spent  !  The  boys  who  bully  him  will  mollify 
towards  him,  and  accept  his  pie  and  sweet- 
meats. They  will  have  feasts  in  the  bedroom; 
and  that  wine  will  taste  more  delicious  to  them 
than  the  best  out  of  the  Doctor's  cellar.  The 
cronies  will  be  invited.  Young  Master  Wagg 
will  tell  his  most  dreadful  story  and  sing  his 
best  song  for  a  slice  of  that  pie.  What  a  jolly 
night  they  will  have  !  When  we  go  the  rounds 
at  night,  Mr.  Prince  and  I  will  take  care  to 
make  a  noise  before  we  come  to  Briggs's  room, 
so  that  the  boys  may  have  time  to  put  the  light 
out,  to  push  the  things  away,  and  to  scud  into 
bed.  Doctor  Spry  may  be  put  in  requisition 
the  next  morning." 

''Nonsense  !  you  absurd  creature,"  cries  out 
Miss  Raby,  laughing ;  and  I  lay  down  the 
twelfth  pen  very  nicely  mended. 

"  Yes  ;  after  luxury  comes  the  doctor,  I  say  ; 


DOCTOR    BIRCH.  29 

after  extravagance  a  hole  in  the  breeches  pocket. 
To  judge  from  his  disposition,  Briggs  Major 
will  not  be  much  better  off  a  couple  of  days 
hence  than  he  is  now ;  and,  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
will  end  life  a  poor  man.  Brown  will  be  kick- 
ing his  shins  before  a  week  is  over,  depend 
upon  it.  There  are  boys  and  men  of  all  sorts. 
Miss  R.  —  There  are  selfish  sneaks  who  hoard 
until  the  store  they  dare  n't  use  grows  mouldy 
—  there  are  spendthrifts  who  fling  away,  para- 
sites who  flatter  and  lick  its  shoes,  and  snarling 
curs  who  hate  and  envy,  good  fortune." 

I  put  down  the  last  of  the  pens,  brushing 
away  with  it  the  quill-chips  from  her  desk  first, 
and  she  looked  at  me  with  a  kind,  wondering 
face.  I  brushed  them  away,  clicked  the  pen- 
knife into  my  pocket,  made  her  a  bow,  and 
walked  off  —  for  the  bell  was  ringing  for 
school. 


A  YOUNG  FELLOW  WHO  IS  PRETTY  SURE 
TO  SUCCEED. 

If  Master  Briggs  is  destined  in  all  probability 
to  be  a  poor  man,  the  chances  are  that  Mr. 
Bullock  will  have  a  very  different  lot.  He  is  a 
son  of  a  partner  of  the  eminent  banking  firm  of 


30  THACKERAY. 

Bullock  and  Hulker,  Lombard  Street,  and  very 
high  in  the  upper  school  —  quite  out  of  my  ju- 
risdiction, consequently. 

He  writes  the  most  beautiful  current-hand 
ever  seen  ;  and  the  way  in  which  he  mastered 
arithmetic  (going  away  into  recondite  and 
wonderful  rules  in  the  Tutor's  Assistant,  which 
some  masters  even  dare  not  approach)  is  de- 
scribed by  the  Doctor  in  terms  of  admiration. 
He  is  Mr.  Prince's  best  algebra  pupil  ;  and  a 
very  fair  classic,  too  ;  doing  everything  well  for 
which  he  has  a  mind. 

He  does  not  busy  himself  with  the  sports  of 
his  comrades,  and  holds  a  cricket-bat  no  better 
than  Miss  Raby  would.  He  employs  the  play- 
hours  in  improving  his  mind,  and  reading  the 
newspaper  ;  he  is  a  profound  politician,  and,  it 
must  be  owned,  on  the  liberal  side.  The  elder 
boys  despise  him  rather  ;  and  when  Champion 
Major  passes,  he  turns  his  head,  and  looks 
down.  I  don't  like  the  expression  of  Bullock's 
narrow  green  eyes,  as  they  follow  the  elder 
Champion,  who  does  not  seem  to  know  or  care 
how  much  the  other  hates  him. 

No.  Mr.  Bullock,  though  perhaps  the  clev- 
erest and  most  accomplished  boy  in  the  school, 
associates  with  the  quite  little  boys  when  he  is 
minded  for  society.     To  these  he  is  quite  affable, 


DOCTOR   BIRCH.  31 

courteous,  and  winning.  He  never  fagged  or 
thrashed  one  of  them.  He  has  done  the  verses 
and  corrected  the  exercises  of  many,  and  many 
is  the  little  lad  to  whom  he  has  lent  a  little 
money. 

It  is  true  he  charges  at  the  rate  of  a  penny  a 
week  for  every  sixpence  lent  out ;  but  many  a 
fellow  to  whom  tarts  are  a  present  necessity  is 
happy  to  pay  this  interest  for  the  loan.  These 
transactions  are  kept  secret.  Mr.  Bullock,  in 
rather  a  whining  tone,  when  he  takes  Master 
Green  aside  and  does  the  requisite  business  for 
him,  says,  "  You  know  you  'II  go  and  talk  about 
it  everywhere.  I  don't  want  to  lend  you  the 
money,  I  want  to  buy  something  with  it.  It 's 
only  to  oblige  you  ;  and  yet  I  am  sure  you  will 
go  and  make  fun  of  me."  Whereon,  of  course, 
Green,  eager  for  the  money,  vows  solemnly 
that  the  transaction  shall  be  confidential,  and 
only  speaks  when  the  payment  of  the  interest 
becomes  oppressive. 

Thus  it  is  that  Mr.  Bullock's  practices  are  at 
all  known.  At  a  very  early  period,  indeed,  his 
commercial  genius  manifested  itself :  and  by 
happy  speculations  in  toffey ;  by  composing  a 
sweet  drink  made  of  stick-liquorice  and  brown 
sugar,  and  selling  it  at  a  profit  to  the  younger 
children  ;    by   purchasing   a   series   of   novels. 


32  THACKERAY. 

which  he  let  out  at  an  adequate  remuneration  ; 
by  doing  boys'  exercises  for  a  penny,  and  other 
processes,  he  showed  the  bent  of  his  mmd.  At 
the  end  of  the  half-year  he  always  went  home 
richer  than  when  he  arrived  at  school,  with  his 
purse  full  of  money. 

Nobody  knows  how  much  he  brought  ;  but 
the  accounts  are  fabulous.  Twenty,  thirty, 
fifty  —  it  is  impossible  to  say  how  many  sover- 
eigns. When  joked  about  his  money,  he  turns 
pale  and  swears  he  has  not  a  shilling  ;  whereas 
he  has  had  a  banker's  account  ever  since  he 
was  thirteen. 

At  the  present  moment  he  is  employed  in 
negotiating  the  sale  of  a  knife  with  Master 
Green,  and  is  pointing  out  to  the  latter  the 
beauty  of  the  six  blades,  and  that  he  need  not 
pay  until  after  the  holidays. 

Champion  Major  has  sworn  that  he  will  break 
every  bone  in  his  skin  the  next  time  that  he 
cheats  a  little  boy,  and  is  bearing  down  upon 
him.  Let  us  come  away.  It  is  frightful  to 
see  that  big  peaceful  clever  coward  moaning 
under  well  -  deserved  blows  and  whining  for 
mercy. 


DOCTOR   BIRCH.  33 


DUVAL  THE  PIRATE. 

Jones  Minimus  passes  laden  with  tarts. 

Duval.  — ■  Hullo  !  you  small  boy  with  the 
tarts  !     Come  here,  sir. 

Jones  Minimus.  —  Please,  Duval,  they  ain't 
mine. 

Duval.  —  Oh,  you  abominable  young  story- 
teller, [He  confiscates  the  goods. 

I  think  I  like  young  Duval's  mode  of  levying 
contributions  better  than  Bullock's.  The  for- 
mer's, at  least,  has  the  merit  of  more  candor. 
Duval  is  the  pirate  of  Birch's,  and  lies  in  wait 
for  small  boys  laden  with  money  or  provender. 
He  scents  plunder  from  afar  off,  and  pounces 
out  on  it.  Woe  betide  the  little  fellow  when 
Duval  boards  him  ! 

There  was  a  youth  here  whose  money  I  used 
to  keep,  as  he  was  of  an  extravagant  and  weak 
taste  ;  and  I  doled  it  out  to  him  in  weekly 
shillings,  sufficient  for  the  purchase  of  the 
necessary  tarts.  This  boy  came  to  me  one  day 
for  half  a  sovereign,  for  a  very  particular  pur- 
pose, he  said,  I  afterwards  found  he  wanted 
to  lend  the  money  to  Duval. 

The  young  ogre  burst  out  laughing,  when  in 
a  great  wrath  and  fury  I  ordered  him  to  re- 


34  THACKERAY. 

fund  to  the  little  boy,  and  proposed  a  bill  of 
exchange  at  three  months.  It  is  true  Duval's 
father  does  not  pay  the  Doctor,  and  the  lad 
never  has  a  shilling,  save  that  which  he  levies  ; 
and  though  he  is  always  bragging  about  the 
splendor  of  Freenystown,  Co.  Cork,  and  the 
fox-hounds  his  father  keeps,  and  the  claret  they 
drink  there  —  there  conies  no  remittance  from 
Castle  Freeny  in  these  bad  times  to  the  honest 
Doctor ;  who  is  a  kindly  man  enough,  and 
never  yet  turned  an  insolvent  boy  out  of  doors. 


THE  DORMITORIES. 

MASTER   HEWLETT   AND  MASTER   NIGHTINGALE. 

{Rather  a  cold  winter  night.') 

Hewlett  {fiinging  a  shoe  at  Master  Nightin- 
gale's  bed,  with  which  he  hits  that  young  gentle- 
man).—  Hullo,  you!  Get  up  and  bring  me 
that  shoe  ! 

Nightingale.  —  Yes,  Hewlett.     {He  gets  up.) 

Hewlett.  —  Don't  drop  it,  and  be  very  care- 
ful of  it,  sir. 

Nightingale.  —  Yes,  Hewlett. 

Hewlett.  —  Silence   in   the   dormitory  !     Any 


DOCTOR   BIRCH.  35 

boy  who  opens  his  mouth,  I'll  murder  him. 
Now,  sir,  are  not  you  the  boy  what  can  sing  ? 

Nightingale.  —  Yes,  Hewlett. 

Hewlett.  —  Chant,  then,  till  I  go  to  sleep,  and 
if  I  wake  when  you  stop,  you  '11  have  this  at 
your  head. 

[Master  Hewlett  lays  his  Bluchers  on  the 
bed,  ready  to  shy  at  Master  Nightingale's 
head  in  the  case  contemplated. 

Nightingale  (timidly).  —  Please,  Hewlett? 

Hewlett.  — Well,  sir  ? 

Nightingale. — May  I  put  on  my  trousers, 
please  ? 

Hewlett.  —  No,  sir.     Go  on,  or  I'll  — 

Nightingale.  — 

"  Through  pleasures  and  palaces 

Though  we  may  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  hiunble, 

There  's  no  place  like  home." 


A  CAPTURE  AND  A  RESCUE. 

My  young  friend,  Patrick  Champion,  George's 
younger  brother,  a  late  arrival  among  us  ;  has 
much  of  the  family  quality  and  good  nature  ; 
is  not  in  the  least  a  tyrant  to  the  small  boys, 
but  is  as  eager  as  Amadis  to  fight.  He  is  box- 
ing his  way  up  the  school,  emulating  his  great 


36  THACKERAY. 

brother.  He  fixes  his  eye  on  a  boy  above  him 
in  strength  or  size,  and  you  hear  somehow  that 
a  difference  has  arisen  between  them  at  foot- 
ball, and  they  have  their  coats  off  presently. 
He  has  thrashed  himself  over  the  heads  of 
many  youths  in  this  manner  :  for  instance,  if 
Champion  can  lick  Dobson,  who  can  thrash 
Hobson,  how  much  more,  then,  can  he  thrash 
Hobson?  Thus  he  works  up  and  establishes 
his  position  in  the  school.  Nor  does  Mr,  Prince 
think  it  advisable  that  we  ushers  should  walk 
much  in  the  way  when  these  little  differences 
are  being  settled,  unless  there  is  some  gross 
disparity,  or  danger  is  apprehended. 

For  instance,  I  own  to  having  seen  this  row 
as  I  was  shaving  at  my  bedroom  window.  I 
did  not  hasten  down  to  prevent  its  consequences. 
Fogle  had  confiscated  a  top,  the  property  of 
Snivins  ;  the  which,  as  the  little  wretch  was 
always  pegging  it  at  my  toes,  I  did  not  regret. 
Snivins  whimpered  ;  and  young  Champion 
came  up,  lusting  for  battle.  Directly  he  made 
out  Fogle,  he  steered  for  him,  pulling  up  his 
coat-sleeves,  and  clearing  for  action. 

"  Who  spoke  to  you,  young  Champion  ? " 
Fogle  said,  and  he  flung  down  the  top  to  Mas- 
ter Snivins.  I  knew  there  would  be  no  fight  ; 
and  perhaps  Champion,  too,  was  disappointed. 


DOCTOR   BIRCH.  37 

THE   GARDEN. 

WHERE    THE    PARLOR -BOARDERS   GO. 

Noblemen  have  been  rather  scarce  at  Birch's 

—  but  the  heir  of  a  great  Prince  has  been  living 
with  the  Doctor  for  some  years.  —  He  is  Lord 
George  Gaunt's  eldest  son,  the  noble  Plau- 
tagenet  Gaunt  Gaunt,  and  nephew  of  the  Most 
Honorable  the  Marquis  of  Steyne. 

They  are  very  proud  of  him  at  the  Doctor's 

—  and  the  two  Misses  and  Papa,  whenever  a 
stranger  comes  down  whom  they  want  to  dazzle, 
are  pretty  sure  to  bring  Lord  Steyne  into  the 
conversation,  mention  the  last  party  at  Gaunt 
House,  and  cursorily  to  remark  that  they  have 
with  them  a  young  friend  who  will  be,  in  all 
human  probability,  Marquis  of  Steyne  and 
Earl  of  Gaunt,  etc. 

Plantagenet  does  not  care  much  about  these 
future  honors  ;  provided  he  can  get  some  brown 
sugar  on  his  bread  and  butter,  or  sit  with  three 
chairs  and  play  at  coach-and-horses  quite  quietly 
by  himself,  he  is  tolerably  happy.  He  saunters 
in  and  out  of  school  when  he  likes,  and  looks  at 
the  masters  and  other  boys  with  a  listless  grin. 
He  used  to  be  taken  to  church,  but  he  laughed 


38  THACKERAY. 

and  talked  in  odd  places,  so  they  are  forced  to 
leave  him  at  home  now.  He  will  sit  with  a 
bit  of  string  and  play  cat's-cradle  for  many 
hours.  He  likes  to  go  and  join  the  very  small 
children  at  their  games.  Some  are  frightened 
at  him  ;  but  they  soon  cease  to  fear,  and  order 
him  about.  I  have  seen  him  go  and  fetch  tarts 
from  Mrs.  Ruggles  for  a  boy  of  eight  years  old  ; 
and  cry  bitterly  if  he  did  not  get  a  piece.  He 
cannot  speak  quite  plain,  but  very  nearly  ;  and 
is  not  more,  I  suppose,  than  three-and-twenty. 

Of  course  at  home  they  know  his  age,  though 
they  never  come  and  see  him.  But  they  forget 
that  Miss  Rosa  Birch  is  no  longer  a  young  chit 
as  she  was  ten  years  ago,  when  Gaunt  was 
brought  to  the  school.  On  the  contrary,  she 
has  had  no  small  experience  in  the  tender  pas- 
sion, and  is  at  this  moment  smitten  with  a  dis- 
interested affection  for  Plantagenet  Gaunt. 

Next  to  a  little  doll  with  a  burnt  nose,  which 
he  hides  away  in  cunning  places,  Mr.  Gaunt  is 
very  fond  of  Miss  Rosa  too.  What  a  pretty 
match  it  would  make  !  and  how  pleased  they 
would  be  at  Gaunt  House,  if  the  grandson  and 
heir  of  the  great  Marquis  of  Steyne,  the  de- 
scendant of  a  hundred  Gaunts  and  Tudors, 
should  marry  Miss  Birch,  the  schoolmaster's 
daughter  !     It  is  true  she  has  the  sense  on  her 


DOCTOR   BIRCH.  39 

side,  and  poor  Plautagenet  is  only  an  idiot ;  but 
there  he  is,  a  zany,  with  such  expectations  and 
such  a  pedigree  ! 

If  Miss  Rosa  would  run  away  with  Mr. 
Gaunt,  she  would  leave  off  bullying  her  cousin. 
Miss  Anne  Raby.  Shall  I  put  her  up  to  the 
notion,  and  offer  to  lend  her  money  to  run 
away  ?  Mr.  Gaunt  is  not  allowed  money.  He 
had  some  once,  but  Bullock  took  him  into  a 
corner,  and  got  it  from  him.  He  has  a  moder- 
ate tick  opened  at  a  tart-woman's.  He  stops 
at  Rodwell  Regis  through  the  year  :  school- 
time  and  holiday-time,  it  is  all  the  same  to  him. 
Nobody  asks  about  liim,  or  thinks  about  him, 
save  twice  a  year,  when  the  Doctor  goes  to 
Gaunt  House,  and  gets  the  amount  of  his  bills, 
and  a  glass  of  wine  in  the  steward's  room. 

And  yet  you  see  somehow  that  he  is  a  gentle- 
man. His  manner  is  different  to  that  of  the 
owners  of  that  coarse  table  and  parlor  at  which 
he  is  a  boarder  (I  do  not  speak  of  Miss  R.  of 
course,  foB  her  manners  are  as  good  as  those  of 
a  duchess).  When  he  caught  Miss  Rosa  box- 
ing little  Fiddes's  ears,  his  face  grew  red,  and 
he  broke  into  a  fierce  inarticulate  rage.  After 
that,  and  for  some  days,  he  used  to  shrink  from 
her  ;  but  they  are  reconciled  now.  I  saw  them 
this  afternoon  in   the   garden  where  only   the 


40  THACKERAY. 

parlor-boarders  walk.  He  was  playful,  and 
touched  her  with  his  stick.  She  raised  her 
handsome  eyes  in  surprise,  and  smiled  on  him 
very  kindly. 

The  thing  was  so  clear,  that  I  thought  it  my 
duty  to  speak  to  old  Zoe  about  it.  The  wicked 
old  catamaran  told  me  she  wished  that  some 
people  would  mind  their  own  business,  and  hold 
their  tongues  —  that  some  persons  were  paid  to 
teach  writing,  and  not  to  tell  tales  and  make 
mischief  :  and  I  have  since  been  thinking 
whether  I  ought  to  communicate  with  the 
Doctor. 

THE  OLD  PUPIL 

As  I  came  into  the  playgrounds  this  morning, 
I  saw  a  dashing  young  fellow,  with  a  tanned 
face  and  a  blonde  moustache,  who  was  walking 
up  and  down  the  green  arm-in-arm  with  Cham- 
pion Major,  and  followed  by  a  little  crowd  of 
boys. 

They  were  talking  of  old  times  evidently. 
"  What  had  become  of  Irvine  and  Smith  ?  "  — 
"  Where  was  Bill  Harris  and  Jones  :  not  Squinny 
Jones,  but  Cocky  Jones?"  —  and  so  forth. 
The  gentleman  was  no  stranger  ;  he  was  an 
old  pupil  evidently,  come  to  see  if  any  of  his 


DOCTOR   BIRCH.  41 

old  comrades  remained,  and  revisit  the  cari 
luogJii  of  his  youth. 

Champion  was  evidently  proud  of  his  arm- 
feilow.  He  espied  his  brother,  young  Cham- 
pion, and  introduced  him.  "Come  here,  sir,'* 
he  called.  "  The  young  'im  was  n't  here  iu 
your  time,  Davison."  "  Pat,  sir,"  said  he, 
*'  this  is  Captain  Davison,  one  of  Birch's  boys. 
Ask  him  who  was  among  the  first  in  the  lines 
at  Sobraon  ?  " 

Pat's  face  kindled  up  as  he  looked  Davison 
full  in  the  face  and  held  out  his  hand.  Old 
Champion  and  Davison  both  blushed.  The 
infantry  set  up  a  "Hurray,  hurray,  hurray," 
Champion  leading,  and  waving  his  wide-awake. 
I  protest  that  the  scene  did  one  good  to  witness. 
Here  was  the  hero  and  cock  of  the  school  come 
back  to  see  his  old  haunts  and  cronies.  He 
had  always  remembered  them.  Since  he  had 
seen  them  last,  he  had  faced  death  and  achieved 
honor.  But  for  my  dignity  I  would  have  shied 
up  my  hat  too. 

With  a  resolute  step,  and  his  arm  still  linked 
in  Champion's,  Captain  Davison  now  advanced, 
followed  by  a  wake  of  little  boys,  to  that  corner 
of  the  green  where  Mrs.  Buggies  has  her  tart 
stand. 

"  Hullo,  Mother  Buggies  !  don't  you  remem- 
ber me  ?  "  he  said,  and  shook  her  by  the  hand. 


42  THACKERAY. 

"  Lor,  if  it  ain't  Davison  Major  ! "  she  said. 
*'  Well,  Davison  Major,  you  owe  me  fourpence 
for  two  sausage-rolls  from  when  you  went 
away." 

Davison  laughed,  and  all  the  little  crew  of 
boys  set  up  a  similar  chorus. 

"  I  buy  the  whole  shop,"  he  said.  "  Now, 
young  'uns  —  eat  away  !  " 

Then  there  was  such  a  **  Hurray  !  hurray  !  " 
as  surpassed  the  former  cheer  in  loudness. 
Everybody  engaged  in  it  except  Rggy  Duff, 
who  made  an  instant  dash  at  the  three-cornered 
puffs,  but  was  stopped  by  Champion,  who  said 
there  should  be  a  fair  distribution.  And  so 
there  was,  and  no  one  lacked,  neither  of  rasp- 
berry, open  tarts,  nor  of  mellifluous  bull's  eyes, 
nor  of  polonies,  beautiful  to  the  sight  and 
taste. 

The  hurraying  brought  out  the  old  Doctor 
himself,  who  put  his  hand  xip  to  his  specta- 
cles and  started  when  he  saw  the  old  pupil. 
Each  blushed  when  he  recognized  the  other  ; 
for  seven  years  ago  they  had  parted  not  good 
friends. 

"  What  —  Davison  ?  "  the  Doctor  said,  with 
a  tremulous  voice.  "  God  bless  you,  my  dear 
fellow  !  "  —  and  they  shook  hands.  "  A  half- 
holiday,  of  course,  boys,"  he  added,  and  there 


DOCTOR   BIRCH.  43 

was  another  hurray  :  there  was  to  be  no  end  to 
the  cheering  that  day. 

"  How  's  —  how  's  the  family,  sir  ?  "  Captain 
Davison  asked. 

"  Come  in  and  see.  Rosa's  grown  quite  a 
lady.  Dine  with  us,  of  course.  Champion 
Major,  come  to  dinner  at  five.  Mr.  Titmarsh, 
the  pleasure  of  your  company  ?  "  The  Doctor 
swung  open  the  garden  gate  :  the  old  master 
and  pupil  entered  the  house  reconciled. 

I  thought  I  would  first  peep  into  Miss  Raby's 
room,  and  tell  her  of  this  event.  She  was 
working  away  at  her  linen  there,  as  usual  quiet 
and  cheerful. 

"You  should  put  up,"  I  said  with  a  smile  ; 
"the  Doctor  has  given  us  a  half-holiday." 

"I  never  have  holidays,"  Miss  Raby  re- 
plied. 

Then  I  told  her  of  the  scene  I  had  just  wit- 
nessed, of  the  arrival  of  the  old  pupil,  the  pur- 
chase of  the  tarts,  the  proclamation  of  the 
holiday,  and  the  shouts  of  the  boys  of  "  Hurray, 
Davison  !  " 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  cried  out  Miss  Raby,  starting 
and  turning  as  white  as  a  sheet. 

I  told  her  it  was  Captain  Davison  from  India  ; 
and  described  the  appearance  and  behavior  of 
the  Captain.     When  I  had   finished  speaking, 


44  THACKERAY. 

she  asked  me  to  go  and  get  her  a  glass  of  wa- 
ter ;  she  felt  unwell.  But  she  was  gone  when 
I  came  back  with  the  water. 

I  know  all  now.  After  sitting  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  with  the  Doctor,  who  attributed  his 
guest's  uneasiness  no  doubt  to  his  desire  to  see 
Miss  Rosa  Birch,  Davison  started  up  and  said 
he  wanted  to  see  Miss  Raby.  "  You  remember, 
sir,  how  kind  she  was  to  my  little  brother, 
sir  ?  "  he  said.  Whereupon  the  Doctor,  with  a 
look  of  surprise,  that  anybody  should  want  to 
see  Miss  Raby,  said  she  was  in  the  little  school- 
room ;  whither  the  Captain  went,  knowing  the 
way  from  old  times. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards.  Miss  R.  and  Miss 
Z.  returned  from  a  drive  with  Plantagenet 
Gaunt  in  their  one-horse  fly,  and  being  informed 
of  Davison's  arrival,  and  that  he  was  closeted 
with  Miss  Raby  in  the  little  school-room,  of 
course  made  for  that  apartment  at  once.  I 
was  coming  into  it  from  the  other  door.  I 
wanted  to  know  whether  she  had  drunk  the 
water. 

This  is  what  both  parties  saw.  The  two  were 
in  this  very  attitude.  *'  Well,  upon  my  word  !  " 
cries  out  Miss  Zoe  ;  but  Davison  did  not  let  go 
his  hold  ;  and  Miss  Raby's  head  only  sank  down 
on  his  hand. 


DOCTOR   BIRCH.  45 

"You  must  get  another  governess,  sir,  for 
the  little  boys,"  Frank  Davison  said  to  the 
Doctor.  "  Anne  Raby  has  promised  to  come 
with  me." 

You  may  suppose  I  shut  to  the  door  on  my 
side.  And  when  I  returned  to  the  little  school- 
room, it  was  black  and  empty.  Everybody 
was  gone.  I  could  hear  the  boys  shouting  at 
play  in  the  green  outside.  The  glass  of  water 
was  on  the  table  where  I  had  placed  it.  I  took 
it  and  drank  it  myself,  to  the  health  of  Anne 
Raby  and  her  husband.  It  was  rather  a 
choker. 

But  of  course  I  was  n't  going  to  stop  on  at 
Birch's.  When  his  young  friends  reassemble 
on  the  1st  of  February  next,  they  will  have  two 
new  masters.  Prince  resigned  too,  and  is  at 
present  living  with  me  at  my  old  lodgings  at 
Mrs.  Cammysole's.  If  any  nobleman  or  gen- 
tleman wants  a  private  tutor  for  his  son,  a  note 
to  the  Rev.  F.  Prince  will  find  him  there. 

Miss  Clapperclaw  says  we  are  both  a  couple 
of  old  fools  ;  and  that  she  knew  when  I  set  off 
last  year  to  Rodwell  Regis,  after  meeting  the 
two  young  ladies  at  a  party  at  General  Cham- 
pion's house  in  our  street,  that  I  was  going  on 
a  goose's  errand.  I  shall  dine  there  on  Christ- 
mas-day ;  and  so  I  wish  a  merry  Christmas  to 
all  young  and  old  boys. 


46  THACKERAY. 


EPILOGUE. 

The  play  is  done  ;  the  curtain  drops, 

Slow  falling,  to  the  prompter's  bell  : 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around,  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task  ; 

And  when  he  's  laughed  and  said  his  say. 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that 's  anything  but  gay. 

One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends. 

Let 's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme, 
And  pledge  a  hand  to  all  young  friends, 

As  fits  the  merry  Christmas  time. 
On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts, 

That  Fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play ; 
Good-night !  with  honest  gentle  hearts 

A  kindly  greeting  go  alway ! 

Good-night !  I'd  say  the  griefs,  the  joys, 

Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page, 
The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age. 
I  'd  say,  your  woes  were  not  less  keen. 

Your  hopes  more  vain,  than  those  of  men ; 
Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen, 

At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 


DOCTOR   BIECH.  47 

I  'd  say,  we  suffer  and  we  strive 

Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys ; 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five, 

As  erst  at  twelve,  in  corduroys. 
And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 
Pray  Heaven,  that  early  love  and  truth 

May  never  wholly  pass  away. 

And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I  'd  say,  how  fate  may  chang-e  and  shift ; 
The  prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool. 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift. 
The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall, 

The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown, 
The  knave  be  lifted  over  all. 

The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 

Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design  ? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave  : 
Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not  mine, 

Be  weeping  at  her  darling's  grave  ?  ^ 
We  bow  to  Heaven  that  wilFd  it  so, 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all, 
That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow, 

That 's  free  to  give  or  to  recall. 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit : 
Who  brought  him  to  that  mirth  and  state  ? 

1  C,  B.,  Ob.  Dec.  1843,  fet.  42. 


48  THACKERAY. 

His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 
Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 

Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  Wheel 
To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus  ? 

Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we  '11  kneel, 
Confessing  Heaven  that  ruled  it  thus. 

So  each  shall  mourn  in  life's  advance, 

Dear  hopes,  dear  friends,  untimely  killed 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance, 

A  longing  passion  unfulfilled. 
Amen :   whatever  Fate  be  sent,  — 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent, 

And  whitened  with  the  winter  snow. 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part, 
And  bow  before  the  Awful  Will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart. 
Who  misses,  or  who  wins  the  prize  ? 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can : 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise, 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman, 

A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young : 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays,) 

The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 
Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days. 


DOCTOR   BIRCH.  49 

The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead  — 

The  joyful  ang-eLs  raised  it  then : 
Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said, 
And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men. 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth  ; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 
And  ^ash  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirth, 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas  tide. 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth, 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still  — 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth, 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 


THE  BOOK  OF  SNOBS. 

BY  ONE  OF  THEMSELVES. 


PREFATORY  REMARKS. 

[The  necessity  of  a  work  on  Snobs,  demonstrated  from 
History,  and  proved  by  felicitous  illustrations  :  —  I  am  the 
individual  destined  to  write  that  work  —  3fy  vocation  is  an- 
nounced in  terms  of  great  eloquence  —  I  shoiv  that  the  world 
has  been  gradually  preparing  itself  for  the  work  and  the 
MAN  —  Snobs  are  to  be  studied  like  other  objects  of  Nattiral 
Science,  and  are  a  part  of  the  Beautiful  (icith  a  large  B). 
They  pervade  all  classes  —  Affecting  instance  of  Colonel 
Snobley.'] 

E  have  all  read  a  statement  (the  authen- 
ticity of  which  I  take  leave  to  doubt 
entirely,  for  upon  what  calculations  I 
should  like  to  know  is  it  founded  ?)  —  we  have 
all,  I  say,  been  favored  by  perusing  a  remark, 
that  when  the  times  and  necessities  of  the  world 
call  for  a  Man,  that  individual  is  found.  Thus 
at  the  French  Revolution  (which  the  reader 
will  be  pleased  to  have  introduced  so  early). 


THE   BOOK   OF  SNOBS.  51 

when  it  was  requisite  to  administer  a  corrective 
dose  to  the  nation,  Robespierre  was  found  ;  a 
most  foul  and  nauseous  dose  indeed,  and  swal- 
lowed eagerly  by  the  patient,  greatly  to  the 
latter's  ultimate  advantage  ;  thus,  when  it  be- 
came necessary  to  kick  John  Bull  out  of 
America,  Mr.  Washington  stepped  forward  and 
performed  that  job  to  satisfaction  ;  thus,  when 
the  Earl  of  Aldborough  was  unwell.  Professor 
Holloway  appeared  with  his  pills,  and  cured 
his  lordship,  as  per  advertisement,  etc.,  etc. 
Numberless  mstances  might  be  adduced  to  show 
that  when  a  nation  is  in  great  want,  the  relief 
is  at  hand  ;  just  as  in  the  Pantomime  (that 
microcosm)  where  when  Clown  wants  anything 
—  a  warming-pan,  a  pump-handle,  a  goose,  or 
a  lady's  tippet  —  a  fellow  comes  sauntering  out 
from  behind  the  side-scenes  with  the  very  arti- 
cle in  question. 

Again,  when  men  commence  an  undertaking, 
they  always  are  prepared  to  show  that  the  ab- 
solute necessities  of  the  world  demanded  its 
completion.  —  Say  it  is  a  railroad  :  the  directors 
begin  by  stating  that  "  A  more  intimate  com- 
munication between  Bathershins  and  Derrynane 
Beg  is  necessary  for  the  advancement  of  civil- 
ization, and  demanded  by  the  multitudinous 
acclamations  of  the  great  Irish  people."     Or 


52  THACKERAY. 

suppose  it  is  a  newspaper :  the  prospectus 
states  that  "  At  a  time  when  the  Church  is  in 
danger,  threatened  from  without  by  savage 
fanaticism  and  miscreant  unbelief,  and  under- 
mined from  within  by  dangerous  Jesuitism  and 
suicidal  Schism,  a  Want  has  been  universally 
felt  —  a  suffering  people  has  looked  abroad  — 
for  an  Ecclesiastical  Champion  and  Guardian. 
A  body  of  Prelates  and  Gentlemen  have  there- 
fore stepped  forward  in  this  our  hour  of  danger, 
and  determined  on  establishing  the  Beadle  news- 
paper," etc.,  etc.  One  or  other  of  these  points 
at  least  is  incontrovertible  :  the  public  wants  a 
thing,  therefore  it  is  supplied  with  it  ;  or  the 
public  is  supplied  with  a  thing ;  therefore  it 
wants  it. 

I  have  long  gone  about  with  a  conviction  on 
my  mind  that  I  had  a  work  to  do  —  a  Work,  if 
you  like,  with  a  great  W  ;  a  Purpose  to  fulfill  ; 
a  chasm  to  leap  into,  like  Curtius,  horse  & 
foot ;  a  Great  Social  Evil  to  Discover  and  to 
Remedy.  That  Conviction  Has  Pursued  me 
for  Years.  It  has  Dogged  me  in  the  Busy 
Street  ;  Seated  Itself  By  me  in  The  Lonely 
Study  ;  Jogged  my  Elbow  as  it  Lifted  the 
Wine-cup  at  The  Festive  Board  ;  pursued  me 
through  the  Maze  of  Rotten  Row  ;  Followed 
me   in   Far   Lands.      On    Brighton's    Shingly 


THE    BOOK    OF    SNOBS.  53 

Beach,  or  Margate's  Sand,  the  Voice  Outpiped 
the  Roaring  of  the  Sea  ;  it  Nestles  in  my  Night- 
cap, and  It  Whispers  "  Wake,  Slumberer,  thy 
Work  Is  Not  Yet  Done."  Last  Year,  By 
Moonlight,  in  the  Colosseum,  the  Little  Sedu- 
lous Voice  Came  to  me  and  Said,  "  Smith,  or 
Jones "  (The  Writer's  Name  is  Neither  Here 
nor  There),  "  Smith  or  Jones,  my  fine  fellow, 
this  is  all  very  well,  but  you  ought  to  be  at 
home  writing  your  great  work  on  SNOBS." 

When  a  man  has  this  sort  of  vocation  it  is 
all  nonsense  attempting  to  elude  it.  He  must 
speak  out  to  the  nations  ;  he  must  unbusm  him- 
self, as  Jeames  would  say,  or  choke  and  die. 
*'  Mark  to  yourself,"  I  have  often  mentally  ex- 
claimed to  your  humble  servant,  "  the  gradual 
way  in  which  you  have  been  prepared  for,  and 
are  now  led  by  an  irresistible  necessity  to  enter 
upon  your  great  labor.  First,  the  World  was 
made  :  then,  as  a  matter  of  course,  Snobs  ;  they 
existed  for  years  and  years,  and  were  no  more 
known  than  America.  But  presently  —  ingens 
patehat  tellus  —  the  people  became  darkly  aware 
that  there  was  such  a  race.  Not  above  five- 
and-twenty  years  since,  a  name,  an  expressive 
monosyllaole,  arose  to  designate  that  race. 
That  name  has  spread  over  England  like  rail- 
roads   subsequently  ;    Snobs    are    known   and 


54  THACKERAY. 

recognized  throughout  an  Empire  on  which  I 
am  given  to  understand  the  Sun  never  sets. 
Punch  appears  at  the  ripe  reason,  to  chronicle 
their  history  :  and  the  individual  comes  forth 
to  write  that  history  in  Punch.'"  ^ 

I  have  (and  for  this  gift  I  congratulate  my- 
self with  a  Deep  and  Abiding  thankfulness)  an 
eye  for  a  Snob.  If  the  Truthful  is  the  Beauti- 
ful, it  is  Beautiful  to  study  even  the  Snobbish  ; 
to  track  Snobs  through  history,  as  certain  little 
dogs  in  Hampshire  hunt  out  truffles  ;  to  sink 
shafts  in  society  and  come  upon  rich  veins  of 
Snob -ore.  Snobbishness  is  like  Death  in  a 
quotation  from  Horace,  which  I  hope  you  never 
have  heard,  "  beating  with  equal  foot  at  poor 
men's  doors,  and  kicking  at  the  gates  of  Emper- 
ors." It  is  a  great  mistake  to  judge  of  Snobs 
lightly,  and  think  they  exist  among  the  lower 
classes  merely.  An  immense  percentage  of 
Snobs,  I  believe,  is  to  be  found  in  every  rank 
of  this  mortal  life.  You  must  not  judge  hastily 
or  vulgarly  of  Snobs  :  to  do  so  shows  that  you 
are  yourself  a  Snob.  I  myself  have  been  taken 
for  one. 

When  I  was  taking  the  waters  at  Bagniggie 
Wells,  and   living  at   the    "  Imperial    Hotel " 

1  These  papers  were  originally  published  in  that  popular 
periodical. 


THE   BOOK    OF    SNOBS.  55 

there,  there  used  to  sit  opposite  me  at  break- 
fast, for  a  short  time,  a  Snob  so  insufferable 
that  I  felt  I  should  never  get  any  benefit  of  the 
waters  so  long  as  he  remained.  His  name  was 
Lieutenant-Colonel  Snobley,  of  a  certain  dragoon 
regiment.  He  wore  japanned  boots  and  mous- 
taches ;  he  lisped,  drawled,  and  left  the  "  r's  " 
out  of  his  words  ;  he  was  always  flourishing 
about  and  smoothing  his  lacquered  whiskers 
with  a  huge  flaming  bandanna,  that  flUed  the 
room  with  an  odor  of  musk  so  stifling  that  I 
determined  to  do  battle  with  that  Snob,  and 
that  either  he  or  I  should  quit  the  Inn.  I  first 
began  harmless  conversations  with  him  ;  fright- 
ening him  exceedingly,  for  he  did  not  know 
what  to  do  when  so  attacked,  and  had  never 
the  slightest  notion  that  anybody  would  take 
such  a  liberty  with  him  as  to  speak  first :  then 
I  handed  him  the  paper  :  then,  as  he  would 
take  no  notice  of  these  advances,  I  used  to  look 
him  in  the  face  steadily  and  —  and  use  my  fork 
in  the  light  of  a  toothpick.  After  two  mornings 
of  this  practice,  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and 
fairly  quitted  the  place. 

Should  the  Colonel  see  this,  will  he  remember 
the  Gent  who  asked  him  if  he  thought  Publi- 
coaler  was  a  fine  writer,  and  drove  him  from 
the  hotel  with  a  four-pronged  fork  ? 


56  THACKERAY. 


THE  SNOB  PLAYFULLY  DEALT  WITH. 

There  are  relative  and  positive  Snobs.  I 
mean  by  positive,  such  persons  as  are  Snobs 
everywhere,  in  all  companies,  from  morning 
till  night,  from  youth  to  the  grave,  being  by 
Nature  endowed  with  Snobbishness  —  and  others 
who  are  Snobs  only  in  certain  circumstances 
and  relations  of  life. 

For  instance  :  I  once  knew  a  man  who  com- 
mitted before  me  an  act  as  atrocious  as  that 
which  I  have  indicated  in  the  last  chapter  as 
performed  by  me  for  the  purpose  of  disgusting 
Colonel  Snobley  ;  viz.,  the  using  the  fork  in  the 
guise  of  a  toothpick.  I  once,  I  say,  knew  a 
man  who,  dining  in  my  company  at  the  "  Europa 
Coffee-house  "  (opposite  the  Grand  Opera,  and, 
as  everybody  knows,  the  only  decent  place  for 
dining  at  Naples),  ate  peas  with  the  assistance 
of  his  knife.  He  was  a  person  with  whose  soci- 
ety I  was  greatly  pleased  at  first  —  indeed,  we 
had  met  in  the  crater  of  Vesuvius,  and  were 
subsequently  robbed  and  held  to  ransom  by 
brigands  in  Calabria,  which  is  nothing  to  the 
purpose  —  a  man  of  great  powers,  excellent 
heart,  and  varied  information  ;  but  I  had  never 
before  seen  him  with  a  dish  of  peas,  and  his 


THE    BOOK   OF    SNOBS.  57 

conduct  ill  regard  to  them  caused  me  the  deep- 
est pain. 

After  having  seen  him  thus  publicly  comport 
himself,  but  one  course  was  open  to  me  —  to 
cut  his  acquaintance.  I  commissioned  a  mutual 
friend  (the  Honorable  Poly  Anthus)  to  break 
the  matter  to  this  gentleman  as  delicately  as 
possible,  and  to  say  that  painful  circumstances 
—  in  nowise  affecting  Mr.  Marrowfat's  honor, 
or  my  esteem  for  him  —  had  occurred,  which 
obliged  me  to  forego  my  intimacy  with  him  ; 
and  accordingly  we  met,  and  gave  each  other 
the  cut  direct  that  night  at  the  Duchess  of 
Monte  Fiasco's  ball. 

Everybody  at  Naples  remarked  the  separa- 
tion of  the  Damon  and  Pythias  —  indeed,  Mar- 
rowfat had  saved  my  life  more  than  once — but 
as  an  English  gentleman,  what  was  I  to  do  ? 

My  dear  friend  was,  in  this  instance,  the 
Snob  relative.  It  is  not  snobbish  of  persons  of 
rank  of  any  other  nation  to  employ  their  knife 
in  the  manner  alluded  to.  I  have  seen  Monte 
Fiasco  clean  his  trencher  with  his  knife,  and 
every  Principe  in  company  doing  likewise.  I 
have  seen,  at  the  hospitable  board  of  H.  I.  H. 
the  Grand  Duchess  Stephanie  of  Baden  —  (who, 
if  these  humble  lines  should  come  under  her 
Imperial  eyes,  is  besought  to  remember  gra- 


58  THACKERAY. 

ciously  the  most  devoted  of  her  servants)  —  I 
have  seen,  I  say,  the  Hereditary  Princess  of 
Potztausend-Donnerwetter  (that  serenely-beau- 
tiful woman)  use  her  knife  in  lieu  of  a  fork  or 
spoon  ;  I  have  seen  her  almost  swallow  it,  by 
Jove  !  like  Ramo  Samee,  the  Indian  juggler. 
And  did  I  blench  ?  Did  my  estimation  for  the 
Princess  diminish  ?  No,  lovely  Amalia  !  One 
of  the  truest  passions  that  ever  was  inspired  by 
woman  was  raised  in  this  bosom  by  that  lady  ! 
Beautiful  one  !  long,  long  may  the  knife  carry 
food  to  those  lips  !  the  reddest  and  loveliest  in 
the  world. 

The  cause  of  my  quarrel  with  Marrowfat  I 
never  breathed  to  mortal  soul  for  four  years. 
We  met  in  the  halls  of  the  aristocracy  —  our 
friends  and  relatives.  We  jostled  each  other 
in  the  dance  or  at  the  board  ;  but  the  estrange- 
ment continued,  and  seemed  irrevocable,  until 
the  fourth  of  June,  last  year. 

We  met  at  Sir  George  Golloper's.  We  were 
placed,  he  on  the  right,  your  humble  servant 
on  the  left,  of  the  admirable  Lady  G.  Peas 
formed  part  of  the  banquet  —  ducks  and  green 
peas.  I  trembled  as  I  saw  Marrowfat  helped, 
and  turned  away  sickening,  lest  I  should  behold 
the  weapon  darting  down  his  horrid  jaws. 

What  was  my  astonishment,  what   my  de- 


THE   BOOK    OF    SNOBS.  59 

light,  when  I  saw  hiiii  use  his  fork  like  any 
other  Christian  !  He  did  not  administer  the 
cold  steel  once,  .  Old  times  rushed  back  upon 
me  —  the  remembrance  of  old  services  —  his 
rescuing  me  from  the  brigands  —  his  gallant 
conduct  in  the  affair  wii;h  the  Countess  Dei 
Spinachi  —  his  lending  me  the  1,700Z.  I  almost 
burst  into  tears  with  joy  —  my  voice  trembled 
with  emotion.  "George,  my  boy!"  I  ex- 
claimed, "  George  Marrowfat,  my  dear  fellow  ! 
a  glass  of  wine  !  " 

Blushing  —  deeply  moved  —  almost  as  trem- 
ulous as  I  was  myself,  George  answered, 
"  Frank,  shall  it  he  Hock  or  Madeira  f  "  I 
could  have  hugged  him  to  my  heart  but  for  the 
presence  of  the  company.  Little  did  Lady 
Golloper  know  what  was  the  cause  of  the 
emotion  which  sent  the  duckling  I  was  carving 
into  her  ladyship's  pink  satin  lap.  The  most 
good-natured  of  women  pardoned  the  error, 
and  the  butler  removed  the  bird. 

We  have  been  the  closest  friends  ever  since, 
nor,  of  course,  has  George  repeated  his  odious 
habit.  He  acquired  it  at  a  country  school, 
where  they  cultivated  peas  and  only  used  two- 
pronged  forks,  and  it  was  only  by  living  on  the 
Continent,  where  the  usage  of  the  four-prong  is 
general,  that  he  lost  the  horrible  custom. 


60  THACKERAY. 

In  this  point  —  and  in  this  only  —  I  confess 
myself  a  member  of  the  Silver-Fork  School  ; 
and  if  this  tale  but  induce  one  of  my  readers  to 
pause,  to  examine  in  his  own  mind  solemnly, 
and  ask,  "Do  I  or  do  1  not  eat  peas  with  a 
knife  ?  "  —  to  see  the  ruin  which  may  fall  upon 
himself  by  continuing  the  practice,  or  his  family 
by  beholding  the  example,  these  lines  will  not 
have  been  written  in  vain.  And  now,  what- 
ever other  authors  may  be,  I  flatter  myself,  it 
will  be  allowed  that  7,  at  least,  am  a  moral 
man. 

By  the  way,  as  some  readers  are  dull  of  com- 
prehension, I  may  as  well  say  what  the  moral 
of  this  history  is.  The  moral  is  this  —  Society 
having  ordained  certain  customs,  men  are  bound 
to  obey  the  law  of  society,  and  conform  to  its 
harmless  orders. 

If  I  should  go  to  the  British  and  Foreign 
Institute  (and  Heaven  forbid  I  should  go  under 
any  pretext  or  in  any  costume  whatever)  —  if  I 
should  go  to  one  of  the  tea-parties  in  a  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers,  and  not  in  the  usual  attire 
of  a  gentleman,  viz.,  pumps,  a  gold  waistcoat, 
a  crush  hat,  a  sham  frill,  and  a  white  choker  — 
I  should  be  insulting  society,  and  eating  peas 
with  my  knife.  Let  the  porters  of  the  Institute 
hustle  out  the  individual  who  shall  so  offend. 


THE    BOOK    OF    SNOBS.  61 

Such  an  offender  is,  as  regards  society,  a.  most 
emphatical  and  refractory  Snob.  It  has  its 
code  and  police  as  well  as  governments,  and  he 
must  conform  who  would  profit  by  the  decrees 
set  forth  for  their  common  comfort. 

I  am  naturally  averse  to  egotism,  and  hate 
self-laudation  consuraedly  ;  but  I  can't  help 
relating  here  a  circumstance  illustrative  of  the 
point  in  question,  in  which  I  must  think  I 
acted  with  considerable  prudence. 

Being  at  Constantinople  a  few  years  since  — 
(on  a  delicate  mission)  —  the  Russians  were 
playing  a  double  game,  between  ourselves,  and 
it  became  necessary  on  our  part  to  employ  an 
extra  negotiator  —  Leckerbiss  Pasha  of  Rou- 
melia,  then  Chief  Graleongee  of  the  Porte,  gave 
a  diplomatic  banquet  at  his  summer  palace  at 
Bujukdere.  I  was  on  the  left  of  the  Galeongee, 
and  the  Russian  agent,  Count  de  Diddloff,  on 
his  dexter  side.  Diddloff  is  a  dandy  who  would 
die  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  pain  :  he  had  tried  to 
have  me  assassinated  three  times  in  the  course 
of  the  negotiation  ;  but  of  course  we  were 
friends  in  public,  and  saluted  each  other  in  the 
most  cordial  and  charming  manner. 

The  Galeongee  is  —  or  was,  alas  !  for  a  bow- 
string has  done  for  him  —  a  stanch  supporter 
of  the  old  school  of  Turkish  politics.     We  dined 


62  THACKERAY. 

with  our  fingers,  and  had  flaps  of  bread  for 
plates  ;  the  only  innovation  he  admitted  was 
the  use  of  European  liquors,  in  which  he  in- 
dulged with  great  gusto.  He  was  an  enormous 
eater.  Amongst  the  dishes  a  very  large  one 
was  placed  before  him  of  a  lamb  dressed  in  its 
wool,  stuffed  with  prunes,  garlic,  asafcetida, 
capsicums,  and  other  condiments,  the  most 
abominable  mixture  that  ever  mortal  smelt  or 
tasted.  The  Galeongee  ate  of  this  hugely ; 
and,  pursuing  the  Eastern  fashion,  insisted  on 
helping  his  friends  right  and  left,  and  when  he 
came  to  a  particularly  spicy  morsel,  would  push 
it  with  his  own  hands  into  his  guests'  very 
mouths. 

I  never  shall  forget  the  look  of  poor  Diddloff , 
when  his  Excellency,  rolling  up  a  large  quantity 
of  this  into  a  ball  and  exclaiming,  "Buk  Buk" 
(it  is  very  good),  administered  the  horrible 
bolus  to  Diddloff.  The  Russian's  eyes  rolled 
dreadfully  as  he  received  it  :  he  swallowed  it 
with  a  grimace  that  I  thought  must  precede  a 
convulsion,  and  seizing  a  bottle  next  him,  which 
he  thought  was  Sauterne,  but  which  turned  out 
to  be  French  brandy,  he  drank  off  nearly  a  pint 
before  he  knew  his  error.  It  finished  him  ;  he 
was  carried  away  from  the  dining-room  almost 
dead,  and  laid  out  to  cool  in  a  summer-house 
on  the  Bosphorus. 


THE   BOOK   OF   SXOBS.  63 

When  it  came  to  my  turn,  I  took  down  the 
condiment  with  a  smile,  said  "  Bismillah," 
licked  my  lips  with  easy  gratification,  and  when 
the  next  dish  w^as  served,  made  up  a  ball  my- 
self so  dexterously,  and  popped  it  down  the  old 
Galeongee's  mouth  with  so  much  grace,  that 
his  heart  was  won.  Russia  was  put  out  of  court 
at  once,  and  the  treaty  of  Kabobanople  icas 
signed.  As  for  Diddloff,  all  w^as  over  with  Mm  : 
he  was  recalled  to  St.  Petersburg,  and  Sir  Rod- 
erick Murchison  saw  him,  under  the  Xo.  3967, 
working  in  the  Ural  mines. 

The  moral  of  this  tale,  I  need  not  say,  is,  that 
there  are  many  disagreeable  things  in  society 
which  you  are  bound  to  take  down,  and  to  do 
so  with  a  smiling  face. 


EOUNDABOUT  PAPERS.i 


THORNS  IN  THE  CUSHION. 

N  the  Essay  with  which  this  volume  com- 
mences, the  Cornliill  Magazine  was 
likened  to  a  ship  sailing  forth  on  her 
voyage,  and  the  captain  uttered  a  very  sincere 
prayer  for  her  prosperity.  The  dangers  of 
storm  and  rock,  the  vast  outlay  upon  ship  and 
cargo,  and  the  certain  risk  of  the  venture,  gave 
the  chief  officer  a  feeling  of  no  small  anxiety  ; 
for  who  could  say  from  what  quarter  danger 
might  arise,  and  how  his  owner's  property  might 
be  imperiled  ?  After  a  six  months'  voyage, 
we  with  very  thankful  hearts  could  acknowledge 
our  good  fortune  :  and,  taking  up  the  apologue 
in  the  Roundabout  manner,  we  composed  a 
triumphal  procession  in  honor  of  the  Magazine, 
and  imagined  the  Imperator  thereof  riding  in 

1  Published  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine.,  of  which  Thackeray 
was  the  first  editor. 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  65 

a  sublime  car  to  return  thanks  in  the  Temple 
of  Victory.  Cornhill  is  accustomed  to  grandeur 
and  greatness,  and  has  witnessed,  every  9th  of 
November,  for  I  don't  know  how  many  cen- 
turies, a  prodigious  annual  pageant,  chariot, 
progress,  and  flourish  of  trumpetry  ;  and  being 
so  very  near  the  Mansion  House,  I  am  sure  the 
reader  will  understand  how  the  idea  of  pageant 
and  procession  came  naturally  to  my  mind. 
The  imagination  easily  supplied  a  gold  coach, 
eight  cream-colored  horses  of  your  true  Pegasus 
breed,  huzzaing  multitudes,  running  footmen, 
and  clanking  knights  in  armor,  a  chaplain  and 
a  sword-bearer  with  a  muff  on  his  head,  scowl- 
ing out  of  the  coach- window,  and  a  Lord  Mayor 
all  crimson,  fur,  gold  chain,  and  white  ribbons, 
solemnly  occupying  the  place  of  state.  A  play- 
ful fancy  could  have  carried  the  matter  farther, 
could  have  depicted  the  feast  in  the  Egyptian 
Hall,  the  Ministers,  Chief  Justices,  and  right 
reverend  prelates  taking  their  seats  round 
about  his  lordship,  the  turtle  and  other  delicious 
viands,  and  Mr.  Toole  behind  the  central 
throne,  bawling  out  to  the  assembled  guests  and 
dignitaries  :  "  My  Lord  So-and-So,  my  Lord 
AYhat-d'ye-call-'im,  my  Lord  Etcaetera,  the 
Lord  Mayor  pledges  you  all  in  a  loving-cup." 
Then  the  noble  proceedings  come  to  an  end  ; 


66  THACKERAY. 

Lord  Simper  proposes  the  ladies  ;  the  company 
rises  from  table,  and  adjourns  to  coffee  and 
muffins.  The  carriages  of  the  nobility  and 
guests  roll  bacls;  to  the  West.  The  Egyptian 
Hall,  so  bright  just  now,  appears  in  a  twilight 
glimmer,  in  which  waiters  are  seen  ransacking 
the  dessert,  and  rescuing  the  spoons.  His  lord- 
ship and  the  Lady  Mayoress  go  into  their  pri- 
vate apartments.  The  robes  are  doffed,  the 
collar  and  white  ribbons  are  removed.  The 
Mayor  becomes  a  man,  and  is  pretty  surely  in 
a  fluster  about  the  speeches  which  he  has  just 
uttered  ;  remembering  too  well  now,  wretched 
creature,  the  principal  points  which  he  did  n't 
make  when  he  rose  to  speak.  He  goes  to  bed 
to  headache,  to  care,  to  repentance,  and,  I  dare 
say,  to  a  dose  of  something  which  his  body- 
physician  has  prescribed  for  him.  And  there 
are  ever  so  many  men  in  the  city  who  fancy 
that  man  happy  ! 

Now,  suppose  that  all  through  that  9th  of 
November  his  lordship  has  had  a  racking  rheu- 
matism, or  a  toothache,  let  us  say,  during  all 
dinner-time  —  through  which  he  has  been 
obliged  to  grin  and  mumble  his  poor  old 
speeches.  Is  he  enviable  ?  Would  you  like  to 
change  with  his  lordship  ?  Suppose  that 
bumper  which  his  golden  footman  brings  him, 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  67 

instead  i'fackins  of  ypocras  or  canary,  contains 
some  abomination  of  senna  ?  Away  !  Remove 
the  golden  goblet,  insidious  cup-bearer  !  You 
now  begin  to  perceive  the  gloomy  moral  which 
I  am  about  to  draw. 

Last  month  we  sang  the  song  of  glorification, 
and  rode  in  the  chariot  of  triumph.  It  was  all 
very  well.  It  was  right  to  huzza,  and  be 
thankful,  and  cry.  Bravo,  our  side  !  and  besides, 
you  know  there  was  the  enjoyment  of  thinking 
how  pleased  Brown,  and  Jones,  and  Robinson 
(our  dear  friends)  would  be  at  this  announce- 
ment of  success.  But  now  that  the  performance 
is  over,  my  good  sir,  just  step  into  my  private 
room,  and  see  that  it  is. not  all  pleasure  —  this 
winning  of  successes.  Cast  your  eye  over  those 
newspapers,  over  those  letters.  See  what  the 
critics  say  of  your  harmless  jokes,  neat  little 
trim  sentences,  and  pet  waggeries  !  Why,  you 
are  no  better  than  an  idiot  ;  you  are  driveling  ; 
your  powers  have  left  you  ;  this  always  over- 
rated writer  is  rapidly  sinking  to,  etc. 

This  is  not  pleasant  ;  but  neither  is  this  the 
point.  It  may  be  the  critic  is  right,  and  the 
author  wrong.  It  may  be  that  the  archbishop's 
sermon  is  not  so  fine  as  some  of  those  discourses 
twenty  years  ago  which  used  to  delight  the 
faithful  in  Granada.     Or  it  may  be  (pleasing 


68  THACKERAY. 

thought  !)  that  the  critic  is  a  dullard,  and  does 
not  understand  what  he  is  writing  about.  Every- 
body who  has  been  to  an  exhibition  has  heard 
visitors  discoursing  about  the  pictures  before 
their  faces.  One  says,  "  This  is  very  well  ; " 
another  says,  "  This  is  stuff  and  rubbish  ; " 
another  cries,  "  Bravo  !  this  is  a  masterpiece  : " 
and  each  has  a  right  to  his  opinion.  For  ex- 
ample, one  of  the  pictures  I  admired  most  at 
the  Royal  Academy  is  by  a  gentleman  on  whom 
I  never,  to  my  knowledge,  set  eyes.  This  pic- 
ture is  No.  346,  "  Moses,"  by  Mr.  S.  Solomon. 
I  thought  it  had  a  great  intention,  I  thought  it 
finely  drawn  and  composed.  It  nobly  repre- 
sented to  my  mind  the  dark  children  of  the 
Egyptian  bondage,  and  suggested  the  touching 
stury.  My  newspaper  says  :  "  Two  ludicrously 
ugly  women,  looking  at  a  dingy  baby,  do  not 
form  a  pleasing  object  ; "  and  so  good-by,  Mr. 
Solomon.  Are  not  most  of  our  babies  served 
so  in  life  ?  and  does  n't  Mr.  Robinson  consider 
Mr.  Brown's  cherub  an  ugly,  squalling  little 
brat  ?  So  cheer  up,  Mr.  S.  S.  It  may  be  tlie 
critic  who  discoursed  on  your  baby  is  a  bad 
judge  of  babies.  When  Pharaoh's  kind  daugh- 
ter found  the  child,  and  clierished  and  loved 
it,  and  took  it  home,  and  found  a  nurse  for 
it,    too,   I    dare   say    there    were  grim,    brick- 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  69 

dust  colored  chamberlains,  or  some  of  the  tough, 
old,  meagre,  yellow  princesses  at  court,  who 
never  had  children  themselves,  who  cried  out, 
"  Faugh  !  the  horrid  little  squalling  wretch  !  " 
and  knew  he  would  never  come  to  good  ;  and 
said,  "  Did  n't  I  tell  you  so  ?  "  when  he  assaulted 
the  Egyptian. 

Never  mind,  then,  Mr.  S.  Solomon,  I  say, 
because  a  critic  pooh-poohs  your  work  of  art 

—  your  Moses  —  your  child  —  your  foundling. 
W'liy,  did  not  a  wiseacre  in  Blackwood's  Maga- 
zine lately  fall  foul  of  "  Tom  Jones  "  ?  O  hy- 
percritic  !  So,  to  be  sure,  did  good  old  Mr. 
Richardson,  who  could  write  novels  himself  — 
but  you,  and  I,  and  Mr.  Gibbon,  my  dear  sir, 
agree  in  giving  our  respect,  and  wonder,  and 
admiration,  to  the  brave  old  master.  • 

In  these  last  words  I  am  supposing  the  re- 
spected reader  to  be  endowed  with  a  sense  of 
humor,  which  he  may  or  may  not  possess  ;  in- 
deed, don't  we  know  many  an  honest  man  who 
can  no  more  comprehend  a  joke  than  he  can 
turn  a  tune  ?  But  I  take  for  granted,  my  dear 
sir,  that  you  are  brimming  over  with  fun  —  you 
may  n't  make  jokes,  but  you  could  if  you  would 

—  you  know  you  could  :  and  in  your  quiet  way 
you  enjoy  them  extremely.  Now  many  people 
neither  make  them,  nor  understand  them  when 


70  THACKERAY. 

made,  nor  like  them  when  anderstood,  and  are 
suspicious,  testy,  and  angry  with  jokers.  Have 
you  ever  watched  an  elderly  male  or  female  — 
an  elderly  "  party,"  so  to  speak,  who  begins  to 
find  out  that  some  young  wag  of  the  company 
is  "  chaffing  "  him  ?  Have  you  ever  tried  the 
sarcastic  or  Socratie  method  with  a  child  ? 
Little  simple  he  or  she,  in  the  mnocence  of  the 
simple  heart,  plays  some  silly  freak,  or  makes 
some  absurd  remark,  which  you  turn  to  ridicule. 
The  little  creature  dimly  perceives  that  you  are 
making  fun  of  him,  writhes,  blushes,  grows 
uneasy,  bursts  into  tears,  —  upon  my  word  it  is 
not  fair  to  try  the  weapon  of  ridicule  upon  that 
innocent  young  victim.  The  awful  objurgatory 
practice  he  is  accustomed  to.  Point  out  his 
fa»lt,  and  lay  bare  the  dire  consequences  there- 
of :  expose  it  roundly,  and  give  him  a  proper, 
solemn,  moral  whipping  —  but  do  not  attempt 
to  castigare  ridendo.  Do  not  laugh  at  him 
writhing,  and  cause  all  the  other  boys  in  the 
school  to  laugh.  Remember  your  owai  young 
days  at  school,  my  friend  —  the  tingling  cheeks, 
burning  ears,  bursting  heart,  and  passion  of 
desperate  tears,  with  which  you  looked  up,  after 
having  performed  some  blunder,  whilst  the 
doctor  held  you  to  public  scorn  before  the  class, 
and  cracked  his  great  clumsy  jokes  upon  you  — 


KOUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  71 

helpless,  and  a  prisoner  !  Better  the  block 
itself,  and  the  lictors,  with  their  fasces  of  birch- 
twigs,  than  the  maddening  torture  of  those 
jokes  ! 

Now  with  respect  to  jokes  —  and  the  present 
company  of  course  excepted  —  many  people, 
perhaps  most  people,  are  as  infants.  They 
have  little  sense  of  humor.  They  don't  like 
jokes.  Raillery  in  writing  annoys  and  offends 
them.  The  coarseness  apart,  I  think  I  have 
met  very,  very  few  women  who  liked  the  banter 
of  Swift  and  Fielding.  Their  simple,  tender 
natures  revolt  at  laughter.  Is  the  satyr  always 
a  wicked  brute  at  heart,  and  are  they  rightly 
shocked  at  his  grin,  his  leer,  his  horns,  hoofs, 
and  ears  ?  Fi  done,  le  vilain  monstre,  with  his 
shrieks,  and  his  capering  crooked  legs  !  Let 
him  go  and  get  a  pair  of  well-wadded  black 
silk  stockings,  and  pidl  them  over  those  horrid 
shanks  ;  put  a  large  gown  and  bands  over  beard 
and  hide  ;  and  pour  a  dozen  of  lavender-water 
into  his  lawn  handkerchief,  and  cry,  and  never 
make  a  joke  again.  It  shall  all  be  highly-dis- 
tilled poesy,  and  perfumed  sentiment,  and  gush- 
ing eloquence ;  and  the  foot  sha'ri't  peep  out, 
and  a  plague  take  it.  Cover  it  up  with  the 
surplice.  Out  with  your  cambric,  dear  ladies, 
and  let  us  all  whimper  together. 


72  THACKERAY. 

Now,  then,  hand  on  heart,  we  declare  that  it 
is  not  the  fire  of  adverse  critics  which  afflicts 
or  frightens  the  editorial  bosom.  They  may 
be  right  ;  they  may  be  rogues  who  have  a  per- 
sonal spite  ;  they  may  be  dullards  who  kick 
and  bray  as  their  nature  is  to  do,  and  prefer 
thistles  to  pineapples  ;  they  may  be  conscien- 
tious, acute,  deeply  learned,  delightful  judges, 
who  see  your  joke  in  a  moment,  and  the  pro- 
found wisdom  lying  underneath.  Wise  or  dull, 
laudatory  or  otherwise,  we  put  their  opinions 
aside.  If  they  applaud,  we  are  pleased  :  if 
they  shake  their  quick  pens,  and  fly  off  with  a 
hiss,  we  resign  their  favors  and  put  on  all  the 
fortitude  we  can  muster.  I  would  rather  have 
the  lowest  man's  good  word  than  his  bad  one, 
to  be  sure  ;  but  as  for  coaxing  a  compliment, 
or  wheedling  him  into  good-humor,  or  stopping 
his  angry  mouth  with  a  good  dinner,  or  ac- 
cepting his  contributions  for  a  certain  Maga- 
zine, for  fear  of  his  barking  or  snapping  else- 
where—  allons  done!  These  shall  not  be  our 
acts.  Bow-wow,  Cerberus  !  Here  shall  be  no 
sop  for  thee,  unless — unless  Cerberus  is  an 
uncommonly  good  dog,  when  we  shall  bear  no 
malice  because  he  flew  at  us  from  a  neighbor's 
gate. 

What,  then,  is  the  main  grief  you  spoke  of 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  73 

as  annoying  you  —  the  toothache  in  the  Lord 
Mayor's  jaw,  the  thorn  in  the  cushion  of  the 
editorial  chair  ?  It  is  there.  Ah  !  it  stings  me 
now  as  I  write.  It  comes  with  almost  every 
morning's  post.  At  night  I  come  home  and 
take  my  letters  up  to  bed  (not  daring  to  open 
them),  and  in  the  morning  I  find  one,  two, 
three  thorns  on  my  pillow.  Three  I  extracted 
yesterday  ;  two  I  found  this  morning.  They 
don't  sting  quite  so  sharply  as  they  did  ;  but  a 
skin  is  a  skin,  and  they  bite,  after  all,  most 
wickedly.  It  is  all  very  fine  to  advertise  on 
the  Magazine,  "Contributions  are  only  to  be 
sent  to  Messrs.  Smith,  Elder  and  Co.,  and  not 
to  the  Editor's  private  residence."  My  dear 
sir,  how  little  you  know  man  or  woman  kind, 
if  you  fancy  they  will  take  that  sort  of  warn- 
ing !  How  am  I  to  know  (though,  to  be  sure, 
I  begin  to  know  now),  as  I  take  the  letters  off 
the  tray,  which  of  those  envelopes  contains  a 
real  bonajide  letter,  and  which  a  thorn  ?  One 
of  the  best  invitations  this  year  I  mistook  for  a 
thorn-letter,  and  kept  it  without  opening.  This 
is  what  I  call  a  thorn-letter  :  — 

"  Camberwell.  June  4. 

"  Sm,  — May  I  hope,  may  I  entreat,  that  you  wiU 
favor  me  by  perusing  the  inclosed  lines,  and  tliat 


74  THACKERAY. 

they  may  be  f ouud  worthj^  of  insertion  in  the  Corn- 
hill  Magazine?  We  have  known  better  days,  sir.  I 
have  a  sick  and  widoAved  mother  to  maintain,  and 
little  brothers  and  sisters  -who  look  to  me.  I  do  my 
utmost  as  governess  to  support  them.  I  toil  at  night 
when  they  are  at  rest,  and  my  own  hand  and  brain 
are  alike  tired.  If  I  could  add  but  a  little  to  our 
means  by  my  pen,  many  of  my  poor  invalid's  wants 
might  be  suppHed,  and  I  could  procure  for  her  com- 
forts to  vphieh  she  is  now  a  stranger.  Heaven  knows 
it  is  not  for  want  of  will  or  for  want  of  energy  on  my 
part,  that  she  is  now  in  ill-health,  and  our  little 
household  almost  without  bread.  Do  —  do  cast  a 
kind  glance  over  my  poem,  and  if  you  can  help  us, 
the  widow,  the  orphans  will  bless  you!  I  remain, 
sir,  in  anxious  expectancy, 

"  Your  faithful  servant,  S.  S.  S." 

And  inclosed  is  a  little  poem  or  two,  and  an 
envelope  with  its  penny  stamp  —  heaven  help 
us  !  —  and  the  writer's  name  and  address. 

Now  you  see  what  I  mean  by  a  thorn.  Here 
is  the  ease  put  with  true  female  logic.  "  I  am 
poor  ;  I  am  good  ;  I  am  ill  ;  I  work  hard  ;  I 
have  a  sick  mother  and  hungry  brothers  and 
sisters  dependent  on  me.  You  can  help  us  if 
you  will."  And  then  I  look  at  the  paper,  with 
the  thousandth  part  of  a  faint  hope  that  it  may 
be  suitable,  and  I  find  it  won't  do  :  and  I  knew 
it  would  n't  do  :  and  why  is  this  poor  lady  to 
appeal  to  luy  pity  and  bring  her  poor  little  ones 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  75 

kneeling  to  my  bedside,  and  calling  for  bread 
wliich  I  can  give  them  if  I  choose  ?  Xo  day 
passes  but  that  argument  ad  misericordiam  is 
used.  Day  and  night  that  sad  voice  is  crying 
out  for  help.  Thrice  it  appealed  to  me  yester- 
day. Twice  this  morning  it  cried  to  me  :  and 
I  have  no  doubt  when  I  go  to  get  my  hat,  I 
shall  find  it  with  its  piteous  face  and  its  pale 
family  about  it,  waiting  for  me  in  the  hall. 
One  of  the  immense  advantages  which  women 
have  over  our  sex  is,  that  they  actually  like  to 
read  these  letters.  Like  letters  ?  O  mercy  on 
us  !  Before  I  was  an  editor  I  did  not  like  the 
postman  much  :  —  but  now  ! 

A  very  common  way  with  these  petitioners  is 
to  begin  with  a  fine  flummery  about  the  merits 
and  eminent  genius  of  the  person  whom  they 
are  addressing.  But  this  artifice,  I  state  pub- 
licly, is  of  no  avail.  When  I  see  that  kind  of 
herb,  I  know  the  snake  within  it,  and  flmg  it 
away  before  it  has  time  to  sting.  Away,  rep- 
tile, to  the  waste-paper  basket,  and  thence  to 
the  flames  ! 

But  of  these  disappointed  people,  some  take 
their  disappointment  and  meekly  bear  it.  Some 
hate  and  hold  you  their  enemy  because  you 
could  not  be  their  friend.  Some,  furious  and 
envious,  say  :  "  Who  is  this  man  who  refuses 


76  THACKERAY. 

what  I  offer,  and  how  dares  he,  the  conceited 
coxcomb,  to  deny  my  merit  ?  " 

Sometimes  my  letters  contain  not  mere  thorns, 
but  bludgeons.  Here  are  two  choice  slips 
from  that  noble  Irish  oak,  which  has  more  than 
once  supplied  alpeens  for  this  meek  and  un- 
offending skull  :  — 

"  Theatre  Royal,  Donnybrook. 

"  Sir,  — I  have  just  finished  reading  the  first  por- 
tion of  your  Tale,  Lovel  the  Widower^  and  am  much 
surprised  at  the  unwarrantable  strictures  you  pass 
therein  on  the  corps  de  ballet. 

"  I  have  been  for  more  than  ten  years  connected 
with  the  theatrical  profession,  and  I  beg  to  assure 
you  that  the  majority  of  the  corps  de  ballet  are  vir- 
tuous, well-conducted  girls,  and,  consequently,  that 
snug  cottages  are  not  taken  for  them  in  the  Regent's 
Park. 

"  I  also  have  to  inform  you  that  theatrical  man- 
agers are  in  the  habit  of  speaking  good  English, 
possibly  better  English  than  authors. 

"  You  either  know  nothing  of  the  subject  in  ques- 
tion, or  you  assert  a  willful  falsehood. 

"  I  am  hapjjy  to  say  that  the  characters  of  the 
corps  de  ballet,  as  also  those  of  actors  and  actresses, 
are  superior  to  the  snarling  of  dyspeptic  libelers,  or 
the  spiteful  attacks  and  brutumfidmen  of  ephemeral 
authors.        I  am,  sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

"A.  B.C." 

The  Editor  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine* 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  77 

"Theatre  Royal,  Donnybrook. 

"Sir,  —  I  have  just  read  in  the  Cornhill  Magazine 
for  January,  the  first  portion  of  a  Tale  written  by 
you,  and  entitled  Lovel  the  Widower. 

"  In  the  production  in  question  you  employ  all 
your  malicious  spite  (and  you  have  great  capabilities 
that  way)  in  trjdng  to  degrade  the  character  of  the 
corps  de  ballet.  When  you  imply  that  the  majority 
of  ballet-girls  have  villas  taken  for  them  in  the 
Regent's  Park,  I  say  you  tell  a  deliberate  falsehood . 

"  Having  been  brought  up  to  the  stage  from  in- 
fancy, and  though  now  an  actress,  having  been 
seven  years  principal  dancer  at  tlie  opera,  I  am  com- 
petent to  speak  on  the  subject.  I  am  only  surprised 
that  so  vile  a  libeler  as  yourself  should  be  allowed 
to  preside  at  the  Dramatic  Fund  dinner  on  the  22d 
instant.  I  think  it  would  be  much  better  if  you 
were  to  reform  your  own  life,  instead  of  telling  lies 
of  those  who  are  immeasurably  your  superiors. 

"  Yours  in  supreme  disgust,  A.  D." 

The  signatures  of  the  respected  writers  are 
altered,  and  for  the  site  of  their  Theatre  Royal 
an  adjacent  place  is  named,  which  (as  I  may- 
have  been  falsely  informed)  used  to  be  famous 
for  quarrels,  thumps,  and  broken  heads.  But, 
I  say,  is  this  an  easy  chair  to  sit  on,  when  you 
are  liable  to  have  a  pair  of  such  shillelahs  flung 
at  it  ?  And,  prithee,  what  was  all  the  quarrel 
about  ?  In  the  little  history  of  '*  Lovel  the 
Widower  "  I  described,  and  brought  to  condign 


78  THACKERAY. 

punishment,  a  certain  wretch  of  a  ballet-dancer, 
who  lived  splendidly  for  a  while  on  ill-gotten 
gains,  had  an  accident,  and  lost  her  beauty,  and 
died  poor,  deserted,  ugly,  and  every  way  odious. 
On  the  same  page,  other  little  ballet-dancers 
are  described,  wearing  homely  clothing,  doing 
their  duty,  and  carrying  their  humble  savings 
to  the  family  at  home.  But  nothing  will  con- 
tent my  dear  correspondents  but  to  have  me 
declare  that  the  majority  of  ballet-dancers  have 
villas  in  the  Regent's  Park,  and  to  convict  me 
of  "  deliberate  falsehood."  Suppose,  for  in- 
stance, I  had  chosen  to  introduce  a  red-haired 
washerwoman  into  a  story  ?  I  might  get  an 
expostulatory  letter  saying,  "Sir,  in  stating 
that  the  majority  of  washerwomen  are  red- 
haired,  you  are  a  liar  !  and  you  had  best  not 
speak  of  ladies  who  are  immeasurably  your 
superiors."  Or  suppose  I  had  ventured  to 
describe  an  illiterate  haberdasher  ?  One  of 
the  craft  might  write  to  me,  "  Sir,  in  describing 
haberdashers  as  illiterate,  you  utter  a  willful 
falsehood.  Haberdashers  use  much  better 
English  than  authors."  It  is  a  mistake,  to  be 
sure.  I  have  never  said  what  my  correspond- 
ents say  I  say.  There  is  the  text  under  their 
noses,  but  what  if  they  choose  to  read  it  their 
Hurroo,   lads  !      Here 's  for   a 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  79 

fight.  There  's  a  bald  head  peeping  out  of  the 
hut.  There  's  a  bald  head  !  It  must  be  Tim 
Mai  one's."  And  whack  !  come  down  both  the 
bludgeons  at  once. 

Ah  me  !  we  wound  where  we  never  intended 
to  strike  ;  we  create  anger  where  we  never 
meant  harm  ;  and  these  thoughts  are  the  thorns 
in  our  Cushion.  Out  of  mere  malignity,  I 
suppose,  there  is  no  man  who  would  like  to 
make  enemies.  But  here,  in  this  editorial 
business,  you  can't  do  otherwise  :  and  a  queer, 
sad,  strange,  bitter  thought  it  is,  that  must 
cross  the  mind  of  many  a  public  man  :  "  Do 
what  I  will,  be  innocent  or  spiteful,  be  generous 
or  cruel,  there  are  A  and  B,  and  C  and  D,  who 
will  hate  me  to  the  end  of  the  chapter  —  to  the 
chapter's  end  —  to  the  Finis  of  the  page  — 
when  hate,  and  envy,  and  fortune,  and  disap- 
pointment shall  be  over." 


ON  SCREENS  IN  DINING-ROOMS. 

A  GRANDSON  of  the  late  Rev.  Dr.  Primrose 
(of  Wakefield,  vicar)  wrote  me  a  little  note 
from  his  country  living  this  morning,  and  the 
kind  fellow  had  the  precaution  to  write  "No 
thorn  "  upon  the  envelope,  so  that,  ere  I  broke 


80  THACKERAY. 

the  seal,  my  mind  might  be  relieved  of  any 
anxiety  lest  the  letter  should  contain  one  of 
those  lurking  stabs  which  are  so  painful  to  the 
present  gentle  writer.  Your  epigraph,  my 
dear  P.,  shows  your  kind  and  artless  nature  ; 
but  don't  you  see  it  is  of  no  use  ?  People  who 
are  bent  upon  assassinating  you  in  the  manner 
mentioned  will  write  "No  thorn "  upon  their 
envelopes  too  :  and  you  open  the  case,  and 
presently  *  out  flies  a  poisoned  stiletto,  which 
springs  into  a  man's  bosom,  and  makes  the 
wretch  howl  with  anguish.  When  the  bailiffs 
are  after  a  man,  they  adopt  all  sorts  of  dis- 
guises, pop  out  on  him  from  all  conceivable 
corners,  and  tap  his  miserable  shoulders.  His 
wife  is  taken  ill  ;  his  sweetheart,  who  remarked 
his  brilliant,  too  brilliant  appearance  at  the 
Hyde  Park  review,  will  meet  him  at  Cremorne 
or  where  you  will.  The  old  friend  who  has 
owed  him  that  money  these  five  years  will  meet 
him  at  so-and-so  and  pay.  By  one  bait  or  other 
the  victim  is  hooked,  netted,  landed,  and  down 
goes  the  basket-lid.  It  is  not  your  wife,  your 
sweetheart,  your  friend  who  is  going  to  pay 
you.  It  is  Mr.  Nab,  the  bailiff.  You  know  — 
you  are  caught.  You  are  off  in  a  cab  to  Chan- 
cery Lane. 

You  know,  I  say  ?     Why  should  you  know  ? 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  81 

I  make  no  manner  of  doubt  you  never  were 
taken  by  a  baliff  in  your  life.  I  never  was.  I 
have  been  in  two  or  three  debtors'  prisons,  but 
not  on  my  own  account.  Goodness  be  praised  ! 
I  mean  you  can't  escape  your  lot,  and  Nab  only 
stands  here  metaphorically  as  the  watchful, 
certain,  and  untiring  officer  of  Mr.  Sheriff  Fate. 
Why,  my  dear  Primrose,  this  morning  along 
with  your  letter  comes  another,  bearing  the 
well-known  superscription  of  another  old  friend, 
which  I  open  without  the  least  suspicion,  and 
what  do  1  find  ?  A  few  lines  from  my  friend 
Johnson,  it  is  true,  but  they  are  written  on 
a  page  covered  with  feminine  handwriting. 
"  Dear  Mr.  Johnson,"  says  the  writer,  "  I  have 
just  been  perusing  with  delight  a  most  charm- 
ing tale  by  the  Archbishop  of  Cambray.  It  is 
called  '  Telemachus  ; '  and  I  think  it  would  be 
admirably  suited  to  the  Cornhill  Magazine. 
As  you  know  the  editor,  will  you  have  the 
great  kindness,  dear  Mr.  Johnson,  to  communi- 
cate with  him  personally  (as  that  is  much  better 
than  writing  in  a  roundabout  way  to  the  Pub- 
lishers, and  waiting  goodness  knows  how  long 
for  an  answer),  and  state  my  readiness  to 
translate  this  excellent  and  instructive  story. 
I  do  not  wish  to  breathe  a  word  against  *  Level 
Parsonage,'  *  Framley  the  Widower,'  or  any  of 


82  THACKERAY. 

the  novels  which  have  appeared  in  the  Cornhill 
Magazine,  but  I  am  sure  '  Telemachus '  is  as 
good  as  new  to  English  readers,  and  in  point  of 
interest  and  morality /ar,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

There  it  is.  I  am  stabbed  through  Johnson. 
He  has  lent  himself  to  this  attack  on  me.  He 
is  weak  about  women.  Other  strong  men  are. 
He  submits  to  the  common  lot,  poor  fellow. 
In  my  reply  I  do  not  use  a  word  of  unkindness. 
I  write  him  back  gently,  that  I  fear  "  Telem- 
achus "  won't  suit  us.  He  can  send  the  letter 
on  to  his  fair  correspondent.  But  however  soft 
the  answer,  I  question  whether  the  wrath  will 
be  turned  away.  Will  there  not  be  a  coolness 
between  him  and  the  lady  ?  and  is  it  not  pos- 
sible that  henceforth  her  fine  eyes  will  look  with 
darkling  glances  upon  the  pretty  orange  color 
of  our  magazine  ? 

Certain  writers,  they  say,  have  a  bad  opinion 
of  women.  Now  I  am  very  whimsical  in  sup- 
posing that  this  disappointed  candidate  will  be 
hurt  at  her  rejection,  and  angry  or  cast  down 
according  to  her  nature  ?  "  Angry,  indeed  !  " 
says  Juno,  gathering  up  her  purple  robes  and 
royal  raiment.  *'  Sorry,  indeed  !  "  cries  Minerva, 
lacing  on  her  corselet  again,  and  scowling  under 
her  helmet.  (I  imagine  the  well-known  Apple 
case  has  just  been  argued  and  decided.)     Hurt, 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  83 

forsooth  !  Do  you  suppose  ive  care  for  the 
opinion  of  that  hobnailed  lout  of  a  Paris  ?  Do 
you  suppose  that  I,  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom, 
can't  make  allowances  for  mortal  ignorance, 
and  am  so  base  as  to  bear  malice  against  a  poor 
creature  who  knows  no  better  ?  You  little 
know  the  goddess  nature  when  you  dare  to  in- 
sinuate that  our  divine  minds  are  actuated  by 
motives  so  base.  A  love  of  justice  influences 
us.  We  are  above  mean  revenge.  We  are  too 
magnanimous  to  be  angry  at  the  award  of  such 
a  judge  in  favor  of  such  a  creature."  And 
rustling  out  their  skirts,  the  ladies  walk  away 
together.  This  is  all  very  well.  You  are 
bound  to  believe  them.  They  are  actuated  by 
no  hostility  :  not  they.  They  bear  no  malice  — 
of  course  not.  But  when  the  Trojan  war  occurs 
presently,  which  side  will  they  take  ?  Many 
brave  souls  will  be  sent  to  Hades.  Hector  will 
perish.  Poor  old  Priam's  bald  numskull  will 
be  cracked,  and  Troy  town  wiW  burn,  because 
Paris  prefers  golden-haired  Venus  to  ox-eyed 
Juno  and  gray-eyed  Minerva. 

The  last  Essay  of  this  Roundabout  Series, 
describing  the  griefs  and  miseries  of  the  edi- 
torial chair,  was  written,  as  the  kind  reader 
will  acknowledge,  in  a  mild  and  gentle,  not  in 
a  warlike  or  satirical   spirit.     I    showed   how 


84  THACKEKAY. 

cudgels  were  applied  ;  but  surely  the  meek 
object  of  persecutiou  hit  no  blows  in  return. 
The  beating  did  not  hurt  much,  and  the  person 
assaulted  could  afford  to  keep  his  good-humor  ; 
indeed,  I  admired  that  brave  though  illogical 
little  actress,  of  the  T.  R.  D-bl-n,  for  her  fiery 
vindication  of  her  profession's  honor.  I  assure 
her  I  had  no  intention  to  tell  1  —  s  —  well,  let 
us  say  monosyllables  —  about  my  superiors  : 
and  I  wish  her  nothing  but  well,  and  when 
Macmahon  (or  shall  it  be  Mulligan  ?)  Roi 
d^Irlande  ascends  his  throne,  I  hope  she  may 
be  appointed  professor  of  English  to  the  prin- 
cesses of  the  royal  house.  Nuper — in  former 
days  —  I  too  have  militated  ;  sometimes,  as  I 
now  think,  unjustly  ;  but  always,  I  vow,  with- 
out personal  rancor.  Which  of  us  has  not  idle 
words  to  recall,  flippant  jokes  to  regret  ?  Have 
you  never  committed  an  imprudence  ?  Have 
you  never  had  a  dispute,  and  found  out  that 
you  were  wrong?  So  much  the  worse  for  you. 
Woe  be  to  the  man  qui  croit  toujours  avoir  raison. 
His  anger  is  not  a  brief  madness,  but  a  perma- 
nent mania.  His  rage  is  not  a  fever-fit,  but  a 
black  poison  inflaming  him,  distorting  his  judg- 
ment, disturbing  his  rest,  embittering  his  cup, 
gnawing  at  his  pleasures,  causing  him  more 
cruel  suffering  than  ever  he  can  inflict  on  his 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  85 

enemy.  0  la  belle  morale  !  As  I  write  it,  I 
think  about  one  or  two  little  affairs  of  my  own. 
There  is  old  Dr.  Squaretoso  (he  certainly  was 
very  rude  to  me,  and  that 's  the  fact)  ;  there  is 
Madame  Pomposa  (and  certainly  her  ladyship's 
behavior  was  about  as  cool  as  cool  could  be). 
Never  mind,  old  Squaretoso  :  never  mind, 
Madame  Pomposa  !  Here  is  a  hand.  Let  us 
be  friends  as  we  once  were,  and  have  no  more 
of  this  rancor. 

I  had  hardly  sent  that  last  Roundabout  Paper 
to  the  printer  (which,  I  submit,  was  written  iu 
a  placable  and  not  unchristian  frame  of  mind), 
when  Saturday  came,  and  with  it,  of  course,  my 
Saturday  Review.  I  remember  at  New  York 
coming  down  to  breakfast  at  the  hotel  one 
morning,  after  a  criticism  had  appeared  in  the 
New  York  Herald,  in  which  an  Irish  writer  had 
given  me  a  dressing  for  a  certam  lecture  on 
Swift.  Ah  !  my  dear  little  enemy  of  the  T.  R. 
D.,  what  were  the  cudgels  in  your  little  hillet- 
doux  compared  to  those  noble  New  York 
shillelahs  ?  All  through  the  Union,  the  literary 
sons  of  Erin  have  marched  aZjoeen-stock  in 
band,  and  in  every  city  of  the  States  they  call 
each  other  and  everybody  else  the  finest  names. 
Having  come  to  breakfast,  then,  in  the  public 
that  the  nine  peo- 


86  THACKERAY, 

pie  opposite  have  all  got  New  York  Heralds 
in  their  hands.  One  dear  little  lady,  whom  I 
knew,  and  who  sat  opposite,  gave  a  pretty  blush, 
and  popped  her  paper  under  the  tablecloth.  I 
told  her  I  had  had  my  whipping  already  in  my 
own  private  room,  and  begged  her  to  continue 
her  reading.  I  may  have  undergone  agonies, 
you  see,  but  every  man  who  has  been  bred  at 
an  English  public  school  comes  away  from  a 
private  interview  with  Dr.  Birch  with  a  calm, 
even  a  smiling  face.  And  this  is  not  impossi- 
ble, when  you  are  prepared.  You  screw  your 
courage  up  —  you  go  through  the  business. 
You  come  back  and  take  your  seat  on  the  form, 
showing  not  the  least  symptom  of  uneasiness  or 
of  previous  unpleasantries.  But  to  be  caught 
suddenly  up,  and  whipped  in  the  bosom  of  your 
family  —  to  sit  down  to  breakfast,  and  cast 
your  innocent  eye  on  a  paper,  and  find,  before 
you  are  aware,  that  the  Saturday  Monitor  or 
Black  Monday  Instructor  has  hoisted  you  and  is 
lapng  on  —  that  is  indeed  a  trial.  Or  perhaps 
the  family  has  looked  at  the  dreadful  paper  be- 
forehand, and  weakly  tries  to  hide  it.  "  Where 
is  the  Instructor  or  the  Monitor?"  say  you. 
"  Where  is  that  paper  ?  "  says  mamma  to  one 
of  the  young  ladies.  Lucy  hasn't  it.  Fanny 
has  n't  seen  it.     Emily  thinks  that  the  govern- 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  87 

ess  has  it.  At  last,  out  it  is  brought,  that  aw- 
ful paper  !  Papa  is  amazingly  tickled  with  the 
article  ou  Tliomsou  ;  thinks  that  show  up  of 
Johnson  is  very  lively  ;  and  now  —  Heaven  be 
good  to  us  !  —  he  has  come  to  the  critique  on 
himself  :  —  "Of  all  rubbish  which  we  have  had 
from  Mr.  Tomkins,  we  do  protest  and  vow 
that  this  last  cartload  is  "  etc.  Ah,  poor  Tom- 
kins  !  —  but  most  of  all,  ah  !  poor  Mrs.  Tom- 
kins,  and  poor  Emily,  and  Fanny,  and  Lucy, 
who  have  to  sit  by  and  see  paterfamilias  put  to 
the  torture  ! 

Now,  on  this  eventful  Saturday,  I  did  not 
cry,  because  it  was  not  so  much  the  Editor  as 
the  Publisher  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine  who  was 
brought  out  for  a  dressing  ;  and  it  is  wonderful 
how  gallantly  one  bears  the  misfortunes  of  one's 
friends.  That  a  writer  should  be  taken  to  task 
about  his  books,  is  fair,  and  he  must  abide  the 
praise  or  the  censure.  But  that  a  publisher 
should  be  criticised  for  his  diimers,  and  for  the 
conversation  which  did  not  take  place  there,  — 
is  this  tolerable  press  practice,  legitimate  joking, 
or  honorable  warfare  ?  I  have  not  the  honor 
to  know  my  next-door  neighbor,  but  I  make  no 
doubt  that  he  receives  his  friends  at  dinner  ;  I 
see  his  wife  and  children  pass  constantly  ;  I 
even  know  the  carriages  of  some  of  the  people 


88  THACKERAY. 

who  call  upon  him,  and  could  tell  their  names. 
Now,  suppose  his  servants  were  to  tell  mine 
what  the  doings  are  next  door,  who  comes  to 
dinner,  what  is  eaten  and  said,  and  I  were  to 
publish  an  account  of  these  transactions  in  a 
newspaper,  I  could  assuredly  get  money  for  the 
report ;  but  ought  I  to  write  it,  and  what  would 
you  think  of  me  for  doing  so  ? 

And  suppose,  Mr.  .Saturday  Reviewer  —  you 
censor  raorum,  you  who  pique  yourself  (and 
justly  and  honorably  in  the  main)  upon  your 
character  of  gentleman,  as  well  as  of  writer, 
suppose,  not  that  you  yourself  invent  and  indite 
absurd  twaddle  about  gentlemen's  private  meet- 
ings and  transactions,  but  pick  this  wretched 
garbage  out  of  a  New  York  street,  and  hold  it 
up  for  your  reader's  amusement  —  don't  you 
think,  my  friend,  that  you  might  have  been 
better  employed  ?  Here,  in  my  Saturday  Re- 
view, and  in  an  American  paper  subsequently 
sent  to  me,  I  light,  astonished,  on  an  account  of 
the  dinners  of  my  friend  and  publisher,  which 
are  described  as  "  tremendously  heavy,"  of  the 
conversation  (which  does  not  take  place),  and 
of  the  guests  assembled  at  the  table.  I  am  in- 
formed that  the  proprietor  of  the  Cornhill,  and 
the  host  on  these  occasions,  is  "a  very  good 
man,   but   totally  unread;"  and   that  on   my 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  89 

asking  him  whether  Dr.  Johnson  was  dining 
behind  the  screen,  he  said,  "God  bless  my  soul, 
my  dear  sir,  there  's  no  person  by  the  name  of 
Johnson  here,  nor  any  one  behind  the  screen," 
and  that  a  roar  of  laughter  cut  him  short.  I 
am  informed  by  the  same  New  York  corre- 
spondent that  I  have  touched  up  a  contributor's 
article  ;  that  I  once  said  to  a  literary  gentle- 
man, who  was  proudly  pointing  to  an  anony- 
mous article  as  his  writing,  "  Ah  !  I  thought  I 
recognized  your  hoof  in  it."  I  am  told  by  the 
same  authority  that  the  Cornhill  Magazine 
"  shows  symptoms  of  being  on  the  wane,"  and 
having  sold  nearly  a  hundred  thousand  copies, 
he  (the  correspondent)  "should  think  forty 
thousand  was  now  about  the  mark."  Then  the 
graceful  writer  passes  on  to  the  dinners,  at 
which  it  appears  the  Editor  of  the  Magazine 
"  is  the  great  gun,  and  comes  out  with  all  the 
geniality  in  his  power." 

Now  suppose  this  charming  intelligence  is 
untrue  ?  Suppose  the  publisher  (to  recall  the 
noble  words  of  my  friend  the  Dublin  actor  of 
last  month)  is  a  gentleman  to  the  full  as  well 
informed  as  those  whom  he  invites  to  his  table  ? 
Suppose  he  never  made  the  remark,  beginning 
—  "  God  bless  my  soul,  my  dear  sir,"  etc.,  nor 
anything  resembling  it  ?  Suppose  nobody  roared 


90  THACKERAY. 

with  laughing  ?  Supjjose  the  Editor  of  the 
Cornhill  Magazine  never  "  touched  up "  one 
single  line  of  the  contribution  which  bears 
*'  marks  of  his  hand  "  ?  Suppose  he  never  said 
to  any  literary  gentleman,  "  I  recognize  your 
hoof'^  in  any  periodical  whatever?  Suppose 
the  40,000  subscribers,  which  the  writer  to  New 
York  "  considered  to  be  about  the  mark,"  should 
be  between  90,000  and  100,000  (and  as  he  will 
have  figures,  there  they  are)  ?  Suppose  this 
back-door  gossip  should  be  utterly  blundering 
and  untrue,  would  any  one  wonder  ?  Ah  !  if 
we  had  only  enjoyed  the  happiness  to  number 
this  writer  among  the  contributors  to  our  Mag- 
azine, what  a  cheerfulness  and  easy  confidence 
his  presence  would  impart  to  our  meetings  ! 
He  would  find  that  "  poor  Mr.  Smith "  had 
heard  that  recondite  anecdote  of  Dr.  Johnson 
behind  the  screen  ;  and  as  for  "  the  great  gun 
of  those  banquets,"  with  what  geniality  should 
not  I  "  come  out "  if  I  had  an  amiable  com- 
panion close  by  me  dotting  down  my  conver- 
sation for  the  New  York  Times  ! 

Attack  our  books,  Mr.  Correspondent,  and 
welcome.  They  are  fair  subjects  for  just  cen- 
sure or  praise.  But  woe  be  to  you,  if  you  allow 
private  rancors  or  animosities  to  influence  you 
in  the  discharge  of  your  public  duty.     In  the 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  91 

little  court  where  you  are  paid  to  sit  as  judge, 
as  critic,  you  owe  it  to  your  employers,  to  your 
conscience,  to  the  honor  of  your  calling,  to  de- 
liver just  sentences  ;  and  you  shall  have  to 
answer  to  Heaven  for  your  dealings,  as  surely 
as  my  Lord  Chief  Justice  oa  the  Bench.  The 
dignity  of  letters,  the  honor  of  the  literary  call- 
ing, the  slights  put  by  haughty  and  unthink- 
ing people  upon  literary  men,  —  don't  we  hear 
outcries  upon  these  subjects  raised  daily  ?  As 
dear  Sam  Johnson  sits  behind  the  screen,  too 
proud  to  show  his  threadbare  coat  and  patches 
among  the  more  prosperous  brethren  of  his 
trade,  there  is  no  want  of  dignity  in  Mm,  in  that 
homely  image  of  labor  ill-rewarded,  genius  as 
yet  unrecognized,  independence  sturdy  and  un- 
complaining. But  Mr.  Xameless,  behind  the 
publisher's  screen  uninvited,  peering  at  the 
company  and  the  meal,  catching  up  scraps  of 
the  jokes,  and  noting  down  the  guests'  beha- 
vior and  conversation,  —  what  a  figure  his  is  ! 
Allans y  Mr.  Nameless  !  Put  up  your  note- 
book ;  walk  out  of  the  hall ;  and  leave  gentle- 
men alone  who  would  be  private,  and  wish  you 
no  harm. 


92  THACKERAY. 


TUNBRIDGE  TOYS. 

I  WONDER  whether  those  little  silver  pencil- 
cases  with  a  movable  almanac  at  the  butt-end 
are  still  favorite  implements  with  boys,  and 
whether  peddlers  still  hawk  them  about  the 
country  ?  Are  there  peddlers  and  hawkers  still, 
or  are  rustics  and  children  grown  too  sharp  to 
deal  with  them  ?  Those  pencil-cases,  as  far  as 
my  memory  serves  me,  were  not  of  much  use. 
The  screw,  upon  which  the  movable  almanac 
turned,  was  constantly  getting  loose.  The  1 
of  the  table  would  work  from  its  moorings, 
under  Tuesday  or  Wednesday,  as  the  case 
might  be,  and  you  would  find,  on  examination, 
that  Th.  or  W.  was  the  23^  of  the  month 
(which  was  absurd  on  the  face  of  the  thing), 
and  in  a  word  your  cherished  pencil-case  an 
utterly  unreliable  time-keeper.  Nor  was  this  a 
matter  of  wonder.  Consider  the  position  of  a 
pencil-case  in  a  boy's  pocket.  You  had  hard- 
bake in  it  ;  marbles,  kept  in  your  purse  when 
the  money  was  all  gone  ;  your  mother's  purse 
knitted  so  fondly  and  supplied  with  a  little  bit 
of  gold,  long  since  —  prodigal  little  son  !  — 
scattered  amongst  the  swane  —  I  mean  amongst 
brandy-balls,  open  tarts,  three-cornered  puffs. 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  \)6 

and  similar  abominations.  You  had  a  top  and 
string  ;  a  knife  ;  a  piece  of  cobbler's  wax  ;  two 
or  three  bullets  ;  a  Little  Warbler  ;  and  I,  for 
my  part,  remember,  for  a  considerable  period, 
a  brass-barreled  pocket-pistol  (which  would 
fire  beautifully,  for  with  it  I  shot  off  a  button 
from  Butt  Major's  jacket)  ;  —  with  all  these 
things,  and  ever  so  many  more,  clinking  and 
rattling  in  your  pockets,  and  your  hands,  of 
course,  keeping  them  in  perpetual  movement, 
how  could  you  expect  your  movable  almanac 
not  to  be  twisted  out  of  its  place  now  and  again 
—  your  pencil-case  to  be  bent  —  your  liquorice- 
water  not  to  leak  out  of  your  bottle  over  the 
cobbler's  wax,  your  bull's-eyes  not  to  ram  up 
the  lock  and  barrel  of  your  pistol,  and  so  forth  ? 

In  the  month  of  June,  thirty-seven  years  ago, 
I  bought  one  of  those  pencil-cases  from  a  boy 
whom  I  shall  call  Hawker,  and  who  was  in  my 
form.  Is  he  dead  ?  Is  he  a  millionnaire  ?  Is 
he  a  bankrupt  now  ?  He  was  an  immense 
screw  at  school,  and  I  believe  to  this  day  that 
the  value  of  the  thing  for  which  I  owed  and 
eventually  paid  three  -  and  -  sixpence,  was  in 
reality  not  one-and-nine. 

I  certainly  enjoyed  the  case  at  first  a  good 
deal,  and  amused  myself  with  twiddling  round 
the  movable  Calendar.     But  this  pleasure  wore 


94  THACKERAY. 

off.  The  jewel,  as  I  said,  was  not  paid  for,  and 
Hawker,  a  large  and  violent  boy,  was  exceed- 
ingly unpleasant  as  a  creditor.  His  constant 
remark  was,  "  When  are  you  going  to  pay  me 
that  three-and-sixpence  ?  What  sneaks  your 
relations  must  be  !  They  come  to  see  you. 
You  go  out  to  them  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays, 
and  they  never  give  you  anything  !  Don't 
tell  me,  you  little  humbug  !  "  and  so  forth.  The 
truth  is  that  my  relations  were  respectable  ; 
but  my  parents  were  making  a  tour  in  Scot- 
laud  ;  and  my  friends  in  London,  whom  I  used 
to  go  and  see,  were  most  kind  to  me,  certainly, 
but  somehow  never  tipped  me.  That  term,  of 
May  to  August,  1823,  passed  in  agonies  then, 
in  consequence  of  my  debt  to  Hawker.  What 
was  the  pleasure  of  a  calendar  pencil-case  in 
comparison  with  the  doubt  and  torture  of  mind 
occasioned  by  the  sense  of  the  debt,  and  the 
constant  reproach  of  that  fellow's  scowling 
eyes  and  gloomy,  coarse  reminders  ?  How  was 
I  to  pay  off  such  a  debt  out  of  sixpence  a  week  ? 
ludicrous  !  Why  did  not  some  one  come  to  see 
me,  and  tip  me  ?  Ah,  my  dear  sir,  if  you  have 
any  little  friends  at  school,  go  and  see  them, 
and  do  the  natural  thing  by  them.  You  won't 
miss  the  sovereign.  You  don't  know  what  a 
blessing  it  will  be  to  them.     Don't  fancy  they 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  95 

are  too  old  —  try  'em.  And  they  will  remem- 
ber you,  and  bless  you  in  future  days ;  and 
their  gratitude  shall  accompany  your  dreary 
after-life  ;  and  they  shall  meet  you  kindly 
when  thanks  for  kindness  are  scant.  O  mercy  ! 
shall  I  ever  forget  that  sovereign  you  gave  me, 
Captain  Bob  ?  or  the  agonies  of  being  in  debt 
to  Hawker  ?  In  that  very  term,  a  relation  of 
mine  was  going  to  India.  I  actually  was 
fetched  from  school  in  order  to  take  leave  of 
him.  I  am  afraid  I  told  Hawker  of  this  cir- 
cumstance. I  own  I  speculated  upon  my  friend's 
giving  me  a  pound.  A  pound  ?  Pooh  !  A  re- 
lation going  to  India,  and  deeply  affected  at 
parting  from  his  darling  kinsman,  might  give 
five  pounds  to  the  dear  fellow  !  .  .  .  There 
was  Hawker  when  I  came  back  —  of  course 
there  he  was.  As  he  looked  in  my  scared  face, 
liis  turned  livid  with  rage.  He  muttered 
curses,  terrible  from  the  lips  of  so  young  a  boy. 
My  relation,  about  to  cross  the  ocean  to  fill  a 
lucrative  appointment,  asked  me  with  much  in- 
terest about  my  progress  at  school,  heard  me 
construe  a  passage  of  Eutropius,  the  pleasing 
Latin  work  on  which  I  was  then  engaged  ;  gave 
me  a  God  bless  you,  and  sent  me  back  to 
school  ;  upon  my  word  of  honor,  without  so 
much  as  a  half-crown  !     It  is  all  very  well,  my 


96  THACKERAY. 

dear  sir,  to  say  that  boys  contract  habits  of 
expecting  tips  froip  their  parents'  friends,  that 
they  became  avaricious,  and  so  forth.  Avari- 
cious !  fudge  !  Boys  contract  habits  of  tart 
and  toffee-eating,  which  they  do  not  carry  into 
after  life.  On  the  contrary,  I  wish  I  did  like 
'em.  What  raptures  of  pleasure  one  could 
have  now  for  five  shillings,  if  one  could  but 
pick  it  off  the  pastry-cook's  tray !  No.  If 
you  have  any  little  friends  at  school,  out  with 
your  half-crowns,  my  friend,  and  impart  to 
those  little  ones  the  little  fleeting  joys  of  their 
age. 

Well,  then.  At  the  beginning  of  August, 
1823,  Bartlemy-tide  holidays  came,  and  I  was 
to  go  to  my  parents,  who  were  at  Tunbridge 
Wells.  My  place  in  the  coach  was  taken  by 
my  tutor's  servants  —  "  Bolt^-in-Tun,"  Fleet 
Street,  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  was  the 

word.     My  tutor,  the  Rev.  Edward  P ,  to 

whom  I  hereby  present  my  best  compliments, 
had  a  parting  interview  with  me  :  gave  me  my 
little  account  for  my  governor  :  the  remaining 
part  of  the  coach-hire  ;  five  shillings  for  my 
own  expenses  ;  and  some  five  and  twenty  shil- 
lings on  an  old  account  which  had  been  over- 
paid, and  was  to  be  restored  to  my  family. 

Away  I  ran  and  paid  Hawker  his  three-and- 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  97 

six.  Ouf  !  what  a  weight  it  was  ofp  my  mind  ! 
(He  was  a  Xorfolk  boy,  and  used  to  go  home 
from  Mrs.  Nelson's  "Bell  Inn,"  Aldgate  —  but 
that  is  not  to  the  point).  The  next  morning, 
of  course,  we  were  an  hour  before  the  time.  I 
and  another  boy  shared  a  hackney-coach  ;  two- 
aud-six  :  porter  for  putting  luggage  on  coach, 
threepence.  I  had  no  more  money  of  my  own 
left.  Rasherwell,  my  companion,  went  into 
the  "  Bolt-in-Tun  "  coffee-room,  and  had  a  good 
breakfast.  I  could  n't  ;  because,  though  I  had 
five-and-twenty  shillings  of  my  parents'  money, 
I  had  none  of  my  own,  you  see. 

I  certainly  intended  to  go  without  breakfast, 
and  still  remember  how  strongly  I  had  that 
resolution  in  my  mind.  But  there  was  that 
hour  to  wait.  A  beautiful  August  morning  — 
I  am  very  hungry.  There  is  Rasherwell  "  tuck- 
ing" away  in  the  coffee-room.  I  pace  the 
street,  as  sadly  almost  as  if  I  had  been  coming 
to  school,  not  going  thence.  I  turn  into  a  court 
by  mere  chance  —  I  vow  it  was  by  mere  chance 
—  and  there  I  see  a  coffee-shop  with  a  placard 
in  the  window.  Coffee^  Twopence.  Round  of 
buttered  toast,  Twopence.  And  here  am  I,  himgry, 
penniless,  with  five-and-twenty  shillings  of  my 
parents'  money  in  my  pocket. 

What  would  you   have   done  ?     You  see  I 


98  THACKERAY. 

had  had  my  money,  and  spent  it  in  that  pencil- 
case  affair.  The  five-and-twenty  shillings  were 
a  trust  —  by  me  to  be  handed  over. 

But  then  would  my  parents  wish  their  only 
child  to  be  actually  without  breakfast  ? 
Having  this  money,  and  being  so  hungry,  so 
very  hungry,  might  n't  I  take  ever  so  little  ? 
Might  n't  I  at  home  eat  as  much  as  I  chose  ? 

Well,  I  went  into  the  coffee-shop,  and  spent 
fourpence.  I  remember  the  taste  of  the  coffee 
and  toast  to  this  day  —  a  pecviliar,  muddy,  not- 
sweet-enough,  most  fragrant  coffee  —  a  rich, 
rancid,  yet  not-buttered-enough,  delicious  toast. 
The  waiter  had  nothing.  At  any  rate,  four- 
pence  I  know  was  the  sum  I  spent.  And  the 
hunger  appeased,  I  got  on  the  coach  a  guilty 
being. 

At  the  last  stage,  —  what  is  its  name  ?  I 
have  forgotten  in  seven-and-thirty  years,  — 
there  is  an  inn  with  a  little  green  and  trees 
before  it ;  and  by  the  trees  there  is  an  open 
carriage.  It  is  our  carriage.  Yes,  there  are 
Prince  and  Blucher,  the  horses  ;  and  my  parents 
in  the  carriage,  ^h  !  how  I  had  been  counting 
the  days  until  this  one  came  !  Oh  !  how  happy 
had  I  been  to  see  them  yesterday  !  But  there 
was  that  fourpence.  All  the  journey  down  the 
toast  had  choked  me,  and  the  coffee  poisoned 
me. 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  99 

I  was  in  such  a  state  of  remorse  about  the 
fourpence,  that  I  forgot  the  maternal  joy  and 
caresses,  the  tender  paternal  voice.  I  pull  out 
the  twenty-four  shillings  and  eightpence  with 
a  trembling  hand. 

"  Here's  your  money,"  I  gasp  out,    "  wliich 

Mr.  P owes    you,    all    but    fourpence.     I 

owed  three-and-sixpence  to  Hawker  out  of  my 
money  for  a  pencil-case,  and  I  had  none  left, 
and  I  took  fourpence  of  yours,  and  had  some 
cofPee  at  a  shop." 

I  suppose  I  must  have  been  choking  whilst 
uttering  this  confession. 

"My  dear  boy,"  ssljs  the  governor,  "why 
did  n't  you  go  and  breakfast  at  the  hotel  ?  " 

"  He  must  be  starved,"  says  my  mother. 

I  had  confessed  ;  I  had  been  a  prodigal  ;  I 
had  been  taken  back  to  my  parents'  arms  again. 
It  was  not  a  very  great  crime  as  yet,  or  a  very 
long  career  of  prodigality  ;  but  don't  we  know 
that  a  boy  who  takes  a  pin  which  is  not  his  own, 
will  take  a  thousand  pounds  when  occasion 
serves,  bring  his  parents'  gray  heads  with  sorrow 
to  the  grave,  and  carry  his  own  to  the  gallows  ? 
Witness  the  career  of  Dick  Idle,  upon  whom 
our  friend  Mr.  Sala  has  been  discoursing. 
Dick  only  began  by  playing  pitch-and-toss  on  a 
tombstone  :  playing   fair,   for  what   we   know  : 


100  THACKERAY. 

and  even  for  that  sin  he  was  promptly  caned 
by  the  beadle.  The  bamboo  was  ineffectual  to 
cane  that  reprobate's  bad  courses  out  of  him. 
From  pitch-and-toss  he  proceeded  to  man- 
slaughter if  necessary  :  to  highway  robbery  ;  to 
Tyburn  and  the  rope  there.  Ah  !  Heaven  be 
thanked,  my  parents'  heads  are  still  above  the 
grass,  and  mine  still  out  of  the  noose. 

As  I  look  up  from  my  desk,  I  see  Tunbridge 
Wells  Common  and  the  rocks,  the  strange 
familiar  place  which  I  remember  forty  years 
ago.  Boys  saunter  over  the  green  with  stumps 
and  cricket-bats.  Other  boys  gallop  by  on  the 
riding-master's  hacks.  I  protest  it  is  Cramp, 
Riding  Master,  as  it  used  to  be  in  the  reign  of 
George  IV.,  and  that  Centaur  Cramp  must  be 
at  least  a  hundred  years  old.  Yonder  comes 
a  footman  with  a  bundle  of  novels  from  the 
library.  Are  they  as  good  as  our  novels  ?  Oh  ! 
how  delightful  they  were  !  Shades  of  Valan- 
cour,  awful  ghost  of  Manfroni,  how  I  shudder 
at  your  appearance  !  Sweet  image  of  Thaddeus 
of  Warsaw,  how  often  has  this  almost  infantile 
hand  tried  to  depict  you  in  a  Polish  cap  and 
richly  embroidered  tights  !  And  as  for  Corin- 
thian Tom  in  light  blue  pantaloons  and  Hes- 
sians, and  Jerry  Hawthorn  from  the  country, 
can  all   the   fashion,  can  all   the  splendor  of 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  101 

real  life  which  these  eyes  have  subsequently 
beheld,  can  all  the  wit  I  have  heard  or  read  in 
later  times,  compare  with  your  fashion,  with 
your  brilliancy,  with  your  delightful  grace,  and 
sparkling  vivacious  rattle  ? 

Who  knows  ?  They  may  have  kept  those 
very  books  at  the  library  still — at  the  well- 
remembered  library  on  the  Pantiles,  where  they 
sell  that  delightful,  useful  Tunbridge  ware.  I 
will  go  and  see.  I  went  my  way  to  the  Pan- 
tiles, the  queer  little  old-world  Pantiles,  where, 
a  hundred  years  since,  so  much  good  company 
came  to  take  its  pleasure.  Is  it  possible  that, 
in  the  past  century,  gentlefolks  of  the  first  rank 
(as  I  read  lately  in  a  lecture  on  George  II. 
in  the  Cornhill  Magazine)  assembled  here  and 
entertained  each  other  with  gaming,  dancing, 
fiddling,  and  tea  ?  There  are  fiddlers,  harpers, 
and  trumpeters  performing  at  this  moment  in  a 
weak  little  old  balcony,  but  where  is  the  fine 
company  ?  Where  are  the  earls,  duchesses, 
bishops,  and  magnificent  embroidered  game- 
sters ?  A  half  dozen  of  children  and  their 
nurses  are  listening  to  the  musicians  ;  an  old 
lady  or  two  in  a  poke-bonnet  passes,  and  for 
the  rest,  I  see  but  an  uninteresting  population 
of  native  tradesmen.  As  for  the  library,  its 
window  is  full  of  pictures  of  burly  theologians, 


102  THACKERAY. 

and  their  works,  sermons,  apologues,  and  so 
forth.  Can  I  go  in  and  ask  the  young  ladies  at 
the  counters  for  "  Manfroni,  or  the  One-Handed 
Monk,"  and  "  Life  in  London,  or  the  Adventures 
of  Corinthian  Tom,  Jeremiah  Hawthorn,  Esq., 
and  their  friend  Bob  Logic?" — absurd.  I 
turn  away  abashed  from  the  casement  —  from 
the  Pantiles  —  no  longer  Pantiles,  but  Parade. 
I  stroll  over  the  Common  and  survey  the  beau- 
tiful purple  hills  around,  twinkling  with  a  thou- 
sand bright  villas,  which  have  sprung  up  over 
this  charming  ground  since  first  I  saw  it.  What 
an  admirable  scene  of  peace  and  plenty  !  What 
a  delicious  air  breathes  over  the  heath,  blows 
the  cloud  shadows  across  it,  and  murmurs 
through  the  full  -  clad  trees  !  Can  the  world 
show  a  land  fairer,  richer,  more  cheerful  ?  I 
see  a  portion  of  it  when  I  look  up  from  the 
window  at  which  I  write.  But  fair  scene,  green 
woods,  bright  terraces  gleaming  in  sunshine, 
and  purple  clouds  swollen  with  summer  rain  — 
nay,  the  very  pages  over  which  my  head  bends 
—  disappear  from  before  my  eyes.  They  are 
looking  backwards,  back  into  forty  years  off, 
into  a  dark  room,  into  a  little  house  hard  by  on 
the  Common  here,  in  the  Bartlemy-tide  holi- 
days. The  parents  have  gone  to  town  for  two 
days  :  the  house  is  all  his  own,  his  own  and  a 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  103 

grim  old  raaid-servant's,  and  a  little  boy  is 
seated  at  night  in  the  lonely  drawing-room, 
poring  over  "  Manfroni,  or  the  One-Handed 
Monk,"  so  frightened  that  he  scarcely  dares  to 
turn  round. 

DE  JUVENTUTE. 

Our  last  paper  of  this  veracious  and  round- 
about series  related  to  a  period  which  can  only 
be  historical  to  a  great  number  of  readers  of 
this  Magazine.  Four  I  saw  at  the  station  to- 
day with  orange-covered  books  in  their  hands, 
who  can  but  have  known  George  IV.  by  books, 
and  statues,  and  pictures.  Elderly  gentlemen 
were  in  their  prime,  old  men  in  their  middle 
age,  when  he  reigned  over  us.  His  image  re- 
mains on  coins  ;  on  a  picture  or  two  hanging 
here  and  there  in  a  Club  or  old-fashioned  dining- 
room  ;  on  horseback,  as  at  Trafalgar  Square, 
for  example,  where  I  defy  any  monarch  to  look 
more  uncomfortable.  He  turns  up  in  sundry 
memoirs  and  histories  which  may  have  been 
published  in  Mr.  Massey's  "  History  ; "  in  the 
"  Buckingham  and  Grenville  Correspondence  ;  " 
and  gentlemen  who  have  accused  a  certain  wri- 
ter of  disloyalty  are  referred  to  those  volumes 
to  see  whether  the  picture  drawn  of  George  is 


104  THACKERAY. 

overcharged.  Charon  has  paddled  him  off  ;  he 
has  mingled  with  the  crowded  republic  of  the 
dead.  His  effigy  smiles  from  a  canvas  or  two. 
Breechless  he  bestrides  his  steed  in  Trafalgar 
Square.  I  believe  he  still  wears  his  robes  at 
Madame  Tussaud's  (Madame  herself  having 
quitted  Baker  Street  and  life,  and  found  him 
she  modeled  t'  other  side  the  Stygian  stream). 
On  the  head  of  a  five -shilling  piece  we  still 
occasionally  come  upon  him,  with  St.  George, 
the  dragon-slayer,  on  the  other  side  of  the  coin. 
Ah  me  !  did  this  George  slay  many  dragons  ? 
Was  he  a  brave,  heroic  champion,  and  rescuer 
of  virgins  ?  Well !  well !  have  you  and  I  over- 
come all  the  dragons  that  assail  us  f  come  alive 
and  victorious  out  of  all  the  caverns  which  we 
have  entered  in  life,  and  succored,  at  risk  of 
life  and  limb,  all  poor  distressed  persons  in 
whose  naked  limbs  the  dragon  Poverty  is  about 
to  fasten  his  fangs,  whom  the  dragon  Crime  is 
poisoning  with  his  horrible  breath,  and  about  to 
crunch  up  and  devour  ?  O  my  royal  liege  !  O 
my  gracious  prince  and  warrior  !  You  a  cham- 
pion to  fight  that  monster  ?  Your  feeble  spear 
ever  pierce  that  slimy  paunch  or  plated  back  ? 
See  how  the  flames  come  gurgling  out  of  his 
red-hot  brazen  throat !  What  a  roar  !  Nearer 
and  nearer  he  trails,  with  eyes  flaming  like  the 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  105 

lamps  of  a  railroad  engine.  How  he  squeals, 
rushinof  out  throug-h  the  darkness  of  his  tunnel  ! 
Now  he  is  near.  Xow  he  is  here.  And  now  — 
what  ?  —  lance,  shield,  knight,  feathers,  horse 
and  all  ?  O  horror,  horror  !  Next  day,  round 
the  monster's  cave,  there  lie  a  few  bones  more. 
You,  who  wish  to  keep  yours  in  your  skins,  be 
thankful  that  you  are  not  called  upon  to  go  out 
and  fight  dragons.  Be  grateful  that  they  don't 
sally  out  and  swallow  you.  Keep  a  wise  dis- 
tance from  their  caves,  lest  you  pay  too  dearly 
for  approaching  them.  Remember  that  years 
passed,  and  whole  districts  were  ravaged,  be- 
fore the  warrior  came  who  was  able  to  cope 
with  the  devouring  monster.  When  that  knight 
does  make  his  appearance,  with  all  my  heart  let 
us  go  out  and  welcome  him  with  our  best  songs, 
huzzas,  and  laurel  wreaths,  and  eagerly  recog- 
nize his  valor  and  victory.  But  he  comes  only 
seldom.  Countless  knights  were  slain  before 
St.  George  won  the  battle.  In  the  battle  of  life 
are  we  all  going  to  try  for  the  honors  of  cham- 
pionship ?  If  we  can  do  our  duty,  if  we  can 
keep  our  place  pretty  honorably  through  the 
combat,  let  us  say  Laus  Deo  !  at  the  end  of  it, 
as  the  firing  ceases,  and  the  night  falls  over  the 
field. 

The  old  were  middle-aged,  the  elderly  were 


106  THACKERAY. 

in  their  prime,  then,  thirty  years  since,  when 
yon  royal  George  was  still  fighting  the  dragon. 
As  for  you,  my  pretty  lass,  with  your  saucy  hat 
and  golden  tresses  tumbled  in  your  net,  and 
you,  my  spruce  young  gentleman  in  your  man- 
darin's cap  (the  young  folks  at  the  country- 
place  where  I  am  staying  are  so  attired),  your 
parents  were  unknown  to  each  other,  and  wore 
short  frocks  and  short  jackets,  at  the  date  of 
this  five-shilling  piece.  Only  to-day  I  met  a 
dog  -  cart  crammed  with  children  —  children 
with  moustaches  and  mandarin  caps  —  children 
with  saucy  hats  and  hair-nets  —  children  in 
short  frocks  and  knickerbockers  (surely  the 
prettiest  boy's  dress  that  has  appeared  these 
hundred  years)  —  children  from  twenty  years 
of  age  to  six  ;  and  father,  with  mother  by  his 
side,  driving  in  front  —  and  on  father's  counte- 
nance I  saw  that  very  laugh  which  I  remember 
perfectly  in  the  time  when  this  crown  -  piece 
was  coined  —  in  his  time,  in  King  George's  time, 
when  we  were  school-boys  seated  on  the  same 
form.  The  smile  was  just  as  broad,  as  bright, 
as  jolly,  as  I  remember  it  in  the  past  —  unfor- 
gotten,  though  not  seen  or  thought  of,  for  how 
many  decades  of  years,  and  quite  and  instantly 
familiar,  though  so  long  out  of  sight. 

Any  contemporary  of  that  coin  who  takes  it  up 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  107 

and  reads  the  inscription  round  the  laureled 
head,  "  Georgius  IV.  Britanniarum  Rex.  Fid. 
Def.  1823,"  if  he  will  but  look  steadily  enough 
at  the  round,  and  utter  the  proper  incantation, 
I  dare  say  may  conjure  back  his  life  there. 
Look  well,  my  elderly  friend,  and  tell  me  what 
you  see  ?  First,  I  see  a  Sultan,  with  hair, 
beautiful  hair,  and  a  crown  of  laurels  round 
his  head,  and  his  name  is  Georgius  Rex.  Fid. 
Def.,  and  so  on.  Now  the  Sultan  has  disap- 
peared ;  and  what  is  it  that  I  see  ?  A  boy,  — 
a  boy  in  a  jacket.  He  is  at  a  desk  ;  he  has 
great  books  before  him,  Latin  and  Greek  books 
and  dictionaries.  Yes,  but  behind  the  great 
books,  which  he  pretends  to  read,  is  a  little  one, 
with  pictures,  which  he  is  really  reading.  It 
is  —  yes,  I  can  read  now  —  it  is  the  "Heart  of 
Mid  Lothian,"  by  the  author  of  "  Waverley  " 
—  or,  no,  it  is  "  Life  in  London,  or  the  Adven- 
tures of  Corinthian  Tom,  Jeremiah  Hawthorn, 
and  their  friend  Bob  Logic,"  by  Pierce  Egan  ; 
and  it  has  pictures  —  oh  !  such  funny  pictures  ! 
As  he  reads,  there  comes  behind  the  boy,  a 
man,  a  dervish,  in  a  black  gown,  like  a  woman, 
and  a  black  square  cap,  and.  he  has  a  book  in 
each  hand,  and  he  seizes  the  boy  who  is  reading 
the  picture-book,  and  lays  his  head  upon  one  of 
his  books,  and  smacks  it  with  the  other.     The 


108  THACKERAY. 

boy  makes   faces,   and   so   that  picture   disap- 
pears. 

Now  the  boy  has  grown  bigger.  He  has  got 
on  a  black  gown  and  cap,  something  like  the 
dervish.  He  is  at  a  table,  with  ever  so  many 
bottles  on  it,  and  fruit,  and  tobacco  ;  and  other 
young  dervishes  come  in.  They  seem  as  if  they 
were  singing.  To  them  enters  an  old  mooUah, 
he  takes  down  their  names,  and  orders  them  all 
to  go  to  bed.  What  is  this  ?  a  carriage,  with 
four  beautiful  horses  all  galloping  —  a  man  in 
red  is  blowing  a  trumpet.  Many  young  men 
are  on  the  carriage  —  one  of  them  is  driving 
the  horses.  Surely  they  won't  drive  into  that  ? 
—  ah  !  they  have  all  disappeared.  And  now  I 
see  one  of  the  young  men  alone.  He  is  walking 
in  a  street  —  a  dark  street  —  presently  a  light 
comes  to  a  window.  There  is  the  shadow  of  a 
lady  who  passes.  He  stands  there  till  the  light 
goes  out.  Now  he  is  in  a  room  scribbling  on  a 
piece  of  paper,  and  kissing  a  miniature  every 
now  and  then.  There  seem  to  be  lines  each 
pretty  much  of  a  length.  I  can  read  hearty 
smart,  dart ;  Mary,  fairy ;  Cupid,  stupid ;  true, 
you;  and  never  mind  what  more.  Bah!  it  is 
bosh.  Now  see,  he  has  got  a  gown  on  again, 
and  a  wig  of  white  hair  on  his  head,  and  he  is 
sitting  with  other  dervishes  in  a  great  room  full 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  109 

of  them,  and  on  a  throne  in  the  middle  is  an 
old  Sultan  in  scarlet,  sitting  before  a  desk,  and 
he  wears  a  wig  too  —  and  the  young  man  gets 
up  and  speaks  to  him.  And  now  what  is  here  ? 
He  is  in  a  room  with  ever  so  many  children, 
and  the  miniature  hanging  up.  Can  it  be  a 
likeness  of  that  woman  who  is  sitting  before 
that  copper  urn  with  a  silver  vase  in  her  hand, 
from  which  she  is  pouring  hot  liquor  into  cups  ? 
Was  she  ever  a  fairy  ?  She  is  as  fat  as  a  hip- 
popotamus now.  He  is  sitting  on  a  divan  by 
the  fire.  He  has  a  paper  on  his  knees.  Read 
the  name.  It  is  the  Superfine  Revieic.  It  in- 
clines to  think  that  Mr.  Dickens  is  not  a  true 
gentleman,  that  Mr.  Thackeray  is  not  a  true 
gentleman,  and  that  when  the  one  is  pert  and 
the  other  arcli,  we,  the  gentlemen  of  the  Super- 
fine Review,  think,  and  think  rightly,  that  we 
have  some  cause  to  be  indignant.  The  great 
cause  why  modern  humor  and  modern  seuti- 
mentalism  repels  us,  is  that  they  are  unwar- 
rantably familiar.  Now,  Mr.  Sterne,  the  Su- 
perfine Reviewer  thinks,  "  was  a  true  sentimen- 
talist, because  he  was  above  all  things  a  true 
gentleman."  The  flattering  inference  is  obvi- 
ous ;  let  us  be  thankful  for  an  elegant  moralist 
watching  over  us,  and  learn,  if  not  too  old,  to 
imitate  his  high-bred  politeness  and  catch  his 


110  THACKERAY. 

unobtrusive  grace.  If  we  are  unwarrantably 
familiar,  we  know  who  is  not.  If  we  repel  by 
pertuess,  we  know  who  never  does.  If  our  lan- 
guage offends,  we  know  who  is  always  modest. 
O  pity  !  The  vision  has  disappeared  off  the 
silver,  the  images  of  youth  and  the  past  are 
vanishing  away  !  We  who  have  lived  before 
railways  were  made  belong  to  another  world. 
In  how  many  hours  could  the  Prince  of  Wales 
drive  from  Brighton  to  London,  with  a  light 
carriage  built  expressly,  and  relays  of  horses 
longing  to  gallop  the  next  stage  ?  Do  you 
remember  Sir  Somebody,  the  coachman  of  the 
Age,  who  took  our  half-crown  so  affably  ?  It 
was  only  yesterday  ;  but  what  a  gulf  between 
now  and  then  !  Then  was  the  old  world.  Stage- 
coaches, more  or  less  swift,  riding-horses,  pack- 
horses,  highwaymen,  knights  in  armor,  Norman 
invaders,  Roman  legions,  Druids,  Ancient 
Britons  painted  blue,  and  so  forth  —  all  these 
belong  to  the  old  period.  I  will  concede  a  halt 
in  the  midst  of  it,  and  allow  that  gunpowder 
and  printing  tended  to  modernize  the  world. 
But  your  railroad  starts  the  new  era,  and  we  of 
a  certain  age  belong  to  the  new  time  and  the 
old  one.  We  are  of  the  time  of  chivalry  as 
well  as  the  Black  Prince  or  Sir  Walter  Manny. 
We  are  of  the  age  of  steam.     We  have  stepped 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  Ill 

out  ot  the  old  world  on  to  "Brunei's"  vast 
deck,  and  across  the  waters  ingens  patet  tellus. 
Towards  what  new  continent  are  we  wending  ? 
to  what  new  laws,  new  manners,  new  politics, 
vast  new  expanses  of  liberties  unknown  as  yet, 
or  only  surmised  ?  I  used  to  know  a  man  who 
had  invented  a  flying-machine.  "  Sir,"  he  would 
say,  "  give  me  but  five  hundred  pounds,  and  I 
will  make  it.  It  is  so  simple  of  construction 
that  I  tremble  daily  lest  some  other  person 
should  light  upon  and  patent  my  discovery." 
Perhaps  faith  was  wanting  ;  perhaps  the  five 
hundred  pounds.  He  is  dead,  and  somebody 
else  must  make  the  flying-machine.  But  that 
will  only  be  a  step  forward  on  the  journey 
already  begun  since  we  quitted  the  old  world. 
There  it  lies  on  the  other  side  of  yonder  em- 
bankments. You  young  folks  have  never  seen 
it ;  and  Waterloo  is  to  you  no  more  than  Agin- 
court,  and  George  IV.  than  Sardanapalus.  We 
elderly  people  have  lived  in  that  pre-railroad 
world,  which  has  passed  into  limbo  and  van- 
ished from  under  us.  I  tell  you  it  was  firm  un- 
der our  feet  once,  and  not  long  ago.  They  have 
raised  those  railroad  embankments  up,  and  shut 
off  the  old  world  that  w^as  behiud  them.  Climb 
up  that  bank  on  which  the  irons  are  laid,  and 
look  to  the  other  side  —  it  is  gone.     There  is 


112  THACKERAY. 

no  other  side.  Try  and  catch  yesterday.  Where 
is  it  ?  Here  is  a  Times  newspaper,  dated  Mon- 
day 26th,  and  this  is  Tuesday  27th.  Suppose 
you  deny  there  was  such  a  day  as  yesterday. 

We  who  lived  before  railways,  and  survive 
out  of  the  ancient  world,  are  like  Father  Noah 
and  his  family  out  of  the  Ark.  The  children 
will  gather  round  and  say  to  us  patriarchs, 
"Tell  us,  grandpapa,  about  the  old  world." 
And  we  shall  mumble  our  old  stories  ;  and  we 
shall  drop  off  one  by  one  ;  and  there  will  be 
fewer  and  fewer  of  us,  and  these  very  old  and 
feeble.  There  will  be  but  ten  pre-railroadites 
left ;  then  three  -—  then  two  —  then  one  —  then 
0 !  If  the  hippopotamus  had  the  least  sensi- 
bility (of  which  I  cannot  trace  any  signs  either 
in  his  hide  or  his  face),  I  think  he  would  go 
down  to  the  bottom  of  his  tank,  and  never  come 
up  again.  Does  he  not  see  that  he  belongs  to 
bygone  ages,  and  that  his  great  hulking  barrel 
of  a  body  is  out  of  place  in  these  times  ?  What 
has  he  in  common  with  the  brisk  young  life 
surrounding  him  ?  In  the  watches  of  the  night, 
when  the  keepers  are  asleep,  when  the  birds 
are  on  one  leg,  when  even  the  little  armadillo 
is  quiet,  and  the  monkeys  have  ceased  their 
chatter,  —  he,  I  mean  the  hippopotamus,  and 
the  elephant,  and  the  long-necked  giraffe,  per- 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  113 

« 
haps  may  lay  their  heads  together  and  have  a 
colloquy  about  the  great  silent  antedilu\aan 
workl  which  they  remember,  where  mighty 
monsters  floundered  through  the  ooze,  croco- 
diles basked  on  the  banks,  and  dragons  darted 
out  of  the  caves  and  waters  before  men  were 
made  to  slay  them.  We  who  lived  before  rail- 
ways are  antediluvians  —  we  must  pass  away. 
We  are  growing  scarcer  every  day  ;  and  old  — 
old  —  very  old  relicts  of  the  times  when  George 
was  still  fighting  the  Dragon. 

Not  long  since,  a  company  of  horse-riders 
paid  a  visit  to  our  watering-place.  We  went 
to  see  them,  and  I  bethought  me  that  young 
Walter  Juvenis,  who  was  in  the  place,  might 
like  also  to  witness  the  performance.  A  pan- 
tomime is  not  always  amusing  to  persons  who 
have  attained  a  certain  age  ;  but  a  boy  at  a 
pantomime  is  always  amused  and  amusing,  and 
to  see  his  pleasure  is  good  for  most  hypochon- 
driacs. 

We  sent  to  Walter's  mother,  requesting  that 
he  might  join  us,  and  the  kind  lady  replied  that 
the  boy  had  already  been  at  the  morning  per- 
formance of  the  equestrians,  but  was  most  eager 
to  go  in  the  evening  likewise.  And  go  he  did  ; 
and  laughed  at  all  Mr.  Merryman's  remarks, 
though  he  remembered  them  with  remarkable 


114  THACKERAY. 

« 

accuracy,  and  insisted  upon  waiting  to  the  very 
end  of  the  fun,  and  was  only  induced  to  retire 
just  before  its  conclusion  by  representations 
that  the  ladies  of  the  party  would  be  incom- 
moded if  they  were  to  wait  and  undergo  the 
rush  and  trample  of  the  crowd  round  about. 
When  this  fact  was  pointed  out  to  him,  he 
yielded  at  once,  though  with  a  heavy  heart,  his 
eyes  looking  longingly  towards  the  ring  as  we 
retreated  out  of  the  booth.  We  were  scarcely 
clear  of  the  place,  when  we  heard  "  God  save 
the  queen,"  played  by  the  equestrian  band,  the 
signal  that  all  was  over.  Our  companion  en- 
tertained us  with  scraps  of  the  dialogue  on  our 
way  home  —  precious  crumbs  of  wit  which  he 
had  brought  away  from  that  feast.  He  laughed 
over  them  again  as  we  walked  under  the  stars. 
He  has  them  now,  and  takes  them  out  of  the 
pocket  of  his  memory,  and  crunches  a  bit,  and 
relishes  it  with  sentimental  tenderness,  too,  for 
he  is,  no  doubt,  back  at  school  by  this  time  ;  the 
holidays  are  over  ;  and  Doctor  Birch's  young 
friends  have  reassembled. 

Queer  jokes,  which  caused  a  thousand  simple 
mouths  to  grin  !  As  the  jaded  Merryman  ut- 
tered them  to  the  old  gentleman  with  the  whip, 
some  of  the  old  folks  in  the  audience,  I  dare 
say,  indulged  in  reflections  of  their  own.     There 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  115 

was  one  joke — I  utterly  forget  it  —  but  it 
began  with  Merryman  saying  what  he  had  for 
dinner.  He  had  mutton  for  dinner,  at  one 
o'clock,  after  which  "  he  had  to  come  to  business." 
And  then  came  the  point.  Walter  Juveuis, 
Esq.,  Rev.  Doctor  Birch's,  Market  Rodborough, 
if  you  read  this  will  you  please  send  me  a  line, 
and  let  me  know  what  was  the  joke  Mr.  Merry- 
man  told  about  having  his  dinner  ?  You  re- 
member well  enough.  But  do  I  want  to  know  ? 
Suppose  a  boy  takes  a  favorite  long  cherished 
lump  of  cake  out  of  his  pocket,  and  offers  you 
a  bite  ?  Merci !  The  fact  is,  I  don't  care 
much  about  knowing  that  joke  of  Mr.  Merry- 
man's. 

But  whilst  he  was  talking  about  his  dinner, 
and  his  mutton,  and  his  landlord,  and  his  busi- 
ness, I  felt  a  great  interest  about  Mr.  M.  in 
private  life  —  about  his  wife,  lodgings,  earn- 
ings, and  general  history,  and  I  dare  say  was 
forming  a  picture  of  those  in  my  mind :  —  wife 
cooking  the  mutton  :  children  waiting  for  it  ! 
Merryman  in  his  plain  clothes,  and  so  forth  ; 
during  which  contemplation  the  joke  was  ut- 
tered and  laughed  at,  and  Mr.  M.,  resuming  his 
professional  duties,  was  tumbling  over  head 
and  heels.  Do  not  suppose  I  am  going,  sicut 
est  mos,  to  indulge  in  moralities  about  buffoons, 


116  THACKERAY. 

paint,  motley,  and  mountebanking.  Nay,  Prime 
Ministers  rehearse  their  jokes  ;  Opposition 
leaders  prepare  and  polish  them  ;  Tabernacle 
preachers  must  arrange  them  in  their  minds 
before  they  utter  them.  All  I  mean  is,  that  I 
would  like  to  know  any  one  of  these  perform- 
ers thoroughly,  and  out  of  his  uniform :  that 
preacher,  and  why  in  his  travels  this  and  that 
point  struck  him  ;  wherein  lies  his  power  of 
pathos,  humor,  eloquence  ;  —  that  Minister  of 
State,  and  what  moves  him,  and  how  his  private 
heart  is  working  ;  —  I  would  only  say  that  at  a 
certain  time  of  life  certain  things  cease  to  in- 
terest ;  but  about  some  things  when  we  cease 
to  care,  what  will  be  the  use  of  life,  sight,  hear- 
ing ?  Poems  are  written,  and  we  cease  to  ad- 
mire. Lady  Jones  invites  us,  and  we  yawn  ;  she 
ceases  to  invite  us,  and  we  are  resigned.  The 
last  time  I  saw  a  ballet  at  the  opera  —  oh  !  it 
is  many  years  ago  —  I  fell  asleep  in  the  stalls 
wagging  my  head  in  insane  dreams,  and  I  hope 
affording  amusement  to  the  company,  while  the 
feet  of  five  hundred  nymphs  were  cutting  flic- 
flacs  on  the  stage  at  a  few  paces'  distance.  Ah  ! 
I  remember  a  different  state  of  things  !  Credite 
posteri.  To  see  those  nymphs  —  gracious  powers, 
how  beautiful  they  were  !  That  leering,  painted, 
shriveled,  thin-armed,  thick-ankled    old   thing, 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  117 

cutting  dreary  capers,  coming  thumping  down 
on  her  board  out  of  time  —  that  an  opera-dan- 
cer ?  Pooh  !  My  dear  Walter,  the  great  dif- 
ference between  my  time  and  yours,  who  will 
enter  life  some  two  or  three  years  hence,  is 
that,  now,  the  dancmg  women  and  singing 
women  are  ludicrously  old,  out  of  time,  and  out 
of  tune  ;  the  paint  is  so  visible,  and  the  dinge 
and  wrinkles  of  their  wretched  old  cotton 
stockings,  that  I  am  surprised  how  anybody 
can  like  to  look  at  them.  And  as  for  laughing 
at  me  for  falling  asleep,  I  can't  understand  a 
man  of  sense  doing  otherwise.  In  my  time,  a 
la  bonne  heure.  In  the  reign  of  George  IV.,  I 
give  you  my  honor,  all  the  dancers  at  the  opera 
were  as  beautiful  as  houries.  Even  in  William 
lY.'s  time,  when  I  think  of  Duvernay  prancing 
in  as  the  Bayadere,  —  I  say  it  was  a  vision  of 
loveliness  such  as  mortal  eyes  can't  see  nowa- 
days. How  well  I  remember  the  tune  to  which 
she  used  to  appear  !  Kaled  used  to  say  to  the 
Sultan,  "  My  lord,  a  troop  of  those  dancing  and 
singing  gurls  called  Bayaderes  approaches," 
and,  to  the  clash  of  cymbals,  and  the  thumping 
of  my  heart,  in  she  used  to  dance  !  There  has 
never  been  anything  like  it  —  never.  There 
never  will  be  —  I  laugh  to  scorn  old  people 
who  tell  me  about  your  Xoblet,  your  Montessu, 


118  THACKERAY. 

your  Vestris,  your  Parisot  —  pshaw,  the  senile 
twaddlers  !  And  the  impudence  of  the  young 
men  with  their  music  and  their  dances  of  to- 
day !  I  tell  you  the  women  are  dreary  old 
creatures.  I  tell  you  one  air  in  an  opera  is 
just  like  another,  and  they  send  all  rational 
creatures  to  sleep.  Ah,  Ronzi  de  Begnis,  thou 
lovely  one  !  Ah,  Caradori,  thou  smiling  angel ! 
Ah,  Malibran  !  Nay,  I  will  come  to  modern 
times,  and  acknowledge  that  Lablache  was  a 
very  good  singer  thirty  years  ago  (though  Porto 
was  the  boy  for  me)  :  and  then  we  had  Ambro- 
getti,  and  Curioni,  and  Donzelli,  a  rising  young 
singer. 

But  what  is  most  certain  and  lamentable  is 
the  decay  of  stage  beauty  since  the  days  of 
George  IV.  Think  of  Sontag  !  I  remember 
her  in  Otello  and  the  Donna  del  Lago  in  '28. 
I  remember  being  behind  the  scenes  at  the 
opera  (where  numbers  of  us  young  fellows  of 
fashion  used  to  go),  and  seeing  Sontag  let  her 
hair  fall  down  over  her  shoulders  previous  to 
her  murder  by  Donzelli.  Young  fellows  have 
never  seen  beauty  like  ihaty  heard  such  a  voice, 
seen  such  hair,  such  eyes.  Don't  tell  me  I  A 
man  who  has  been  about  town  since  the  reign 
of  George  IV.,  ought  he  not  to  know  better 
than  you  young  lads  who  have  seen  nothing  ? 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  119 

The  deterioratiou  of  women  is  lamentable  ;  and 
the  conceit  of  the  young  fellows  more  lamenta- 
ble still,  that  they  won't  see  this  fact,  but  per- 
sist in  thinking  their  time  as  good  as  ours. 

Bless  me  !  when  I  was  a  lad,  the  stage  was 
covered  with  angels,  who  sang,  acted,  and 
danced.  When  I  remember  the  Adelphi,  and 
the  actresses  there ;  when  I  think  of  Miss 
Chester,  and  Miss  Love,  and  Mrs.  Serle  at 
Sadler's  Wells,  and  her  forty  glorious  pupils  — 
of  the  Opera  and  Noblet,  and  the  exquisite 
young  Taglioni,  and  Pauline  Leroux,  and  a  host 
more  !  One  much-admired  being  of  those  days 
I  confess  I  never  cared  for,  and  that  was  the 
chief  male  dancer  —  a  very  important  person- 
age then,  with  a  bare  neck,  bare  arms,  a  tunic, 
and  a  hat  and  feathers,  who  used  to  divide  the 
applause  vsdth  the  ladies,  and  who  has  now  sunk 
down  a  trap-door  forever.  And  this  frank  ad- 
mission ought  to  show  that  I  am  not  your  mere 
twaddling  laudator  temporis  acti  —  your  old  fogy 
who  can  see  no  good  except  in  his  own  time. 

They  say  that  claret  is  better  nowadays,  and 
cookery  much  improved  since  the  time  of  my 
monarch  —  of  George  IV.  Pastry  Cookery  is 
certainly  not  so  good.  I  have  often  eaten  half 
a  crown's  worth  (including,  I  trust,  ginger- 
beer)  at  our  school  pastry-cook's,  and  that  is  a 


120  THACKERAY. 

proof  that  the  pastry  must  have  been  very  good, 
for  could  I  do  as  much  uow  ?  I  passed  by  the 
pastry-cook's  shop  lately,  having  occasion  to 
visit  my  old  school.  It  looked  a  very  dingy 
old  baker's  ;  misfortunes  may  have  come  over 
him  — -  those  penny  tarts  certainly  did  not  look 
so  nice  as  I  remember  them :  but  he  may  have 
grown  careless  as  he  has  grown  old  (I  should 
judge  him  to  be  now  about  ninety-six  years  of 
age),  and  his  hand  may  have  lost  its  cunning. 

Not  that  we  were  not  great  epicures.  I  re- 
member how  we  constantly  grumbled  at  the 
quantity  of  the  food  in  our  master's  house  — 
which  on  my  conscience  I  believe  was  excellent 
and  plentiful  —  and  how  we  tried  once  or  twice 
to  eat  him  out  of  house  and  home.  At  the 
pastry-cook's  we  may  have  over -eaten  our- 
selves (I  have  admitted  half  a  crown's  worth 
for  my  own  part,  but  I  don't  like  to  mention 
the  real  figure  for  fear  of  perverting  the  pres- 
ent generation  of  boys  by  my  monstrous  con- 
fession) —  we  may  have  eaten  too  much,  I  say. 
We  did  ;  but  what  then  ?  The  school  apothe- 
cary was  sent  for  :  a  couple  of  small  globules 
at  night,  a  trifling  preparation  of  senna  in  the 
morning,  and  we  had  not  to  go  to  school,  so 
that  the  draught  was  an  actual  pleasure. 

For  our  amusements,  besides  the  games  in 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  121 

vogue,  which  were  pretty  much  in  old  times  as 
they  are  now  (except  cricket,  par  exemple  — 
and  I  wish  the  present  youth  joy  of  their 
bowling,  and  suppose  Armstrong  and  Whitworth 
will  bowl  at  them  with  light  field-pieces  next), 
there  were  novels  —  ah  !  I  trouble  you  to  find 
such  novels  in  the  present  day  !  O  Scottish 
Chiefs,  didn't  we  weep  over  you  !  O  Mysteries 
of  Udolpho,  did  n't  I  and  Briggs  JVIinor  draw 
pictures  out  of  you,  as  I  have  said  ?  Efforts, 
feeble  indeed,  but  still  giving  pleasure  to  us 
and  our  friends.  "  I  say,  old  boy,  draw  us 
Vivaldi  tortured  in  the  Inquisition,"  or  "  Draw 
us  Don  Quixote  and  the  windmills,  you  know," 
amateurs  woidd  say,  to  boys  who  had  a  love  of 
drawing.  "  Peregrine  Pickle  "  we  liked,  our 
fathers  admiring  it,  and  telling  us  (the  sly  old 
boys)  it  was  capital  fun  ;  but  I  think  I  was 
rather  bewildered  by  it,  though  "  Roderick 
Random  "  was  and  remains  delightful.  I  don't 
remember  having  Sterne  in  the  school  library, 
no  doubt  because  the  works  of  that  divine  were 
not  considered  decent  for  young  people.  Ah  ! 
not  against  thy  genius,  O  father  of  Uncle  Toby 
and  Trim,  would  I  say  a  word  in  disrespect. 
But  I  am  thankful  to  live  in  times  when  men 
no  longer  have  the  temptation  to  write  so  as 
to  call  blushes  on  women's  cheeks,  and  would 


122  THACKERAY. 

shame  to  whisper  wicked  allusions  to  honest 
boys.  Then,  above  all,  we  had  Walter  Scott, 
the  kindly,  the  generous,  the  pure  —  the  com- 
panion of  what  countless  delightful  hours  ;  the 
purveyor  of  how  much  happiness  ;  the  friend 
whom  we  recall  as  the  constant  benefactor  of 
our  youth !  How  well  I  remember  the  type 
and  the  brownish  paper  of  the  old  duodecimo 
"  Tales  of  my  Landlord  "  !  I  have  never  dared 
to  read  the  "  Pirate,"  and  the  "  Bride  of  Lam- 
mermoor,"  or  "  Kenilworth,"  from  that  day  to 
this  because  the  finale  is  unhappy,  and  people 
die,  and  are  murdered  at  the  end.  But  "  Ivan- 
hoe,"  and  "  Quentin  Durward  "  !  Oh  !  for  a 
half-holiday,  and  a  quiet  corner,  and  one  of 
those  books  again  !  Those  books,  and  perhaps 
those  eyes  with  which  we  read  them  ;  and  it 
may  be,  the  brains  behind  the  eyes  !  It  may 
be  the  tart  was  good  ;  but  how  fresh  the  ap- 
petite was  !  If  the  gods  would  give  me  the 
desire  of  my  heart,  I  should  be  able  to  write  a 
story  which  boys  would  relish  for  the  next  few 
dozen  of  centuries.  The  boy-critic  loves  the 
story  :  grown  up,  he  loves  the  author  who  wrote 
the  story.  Hence  the  kindly  tie  is  established 
between  writer  and  reader,  and  lasts  pretty 
nearly  for  life.  I  meet  people  now  who  don't 
care  for  Walter  Scott,  or  the  "  Arabian  Niglits  ; " 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  123 

1  am  sorry  for  them,  unless  they  iu  their  time 
have  fomid  their  romiincer  —  their  charming 
Scheherazade.  By  the  way,  Walter,  when  you 
are  writing,  tell  me  who  is  the  favorite  novelist 
in  the  fourth  form  now  ?  Have  you  got  any- 
thing so  good  and  kindly  as  dear  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  Frank  1  It  used  to  belong  to  a  fellow's 
sisters  generally  ;  but  though  he  pretended  to 
despise  it,  and  said  "  Oh,  stuif  for  girls  !  "  he 
read  it  ;  and  I  think  there  were  one  or  two 
passages  which  would  try  my  eyes  now,  were  I 
to  meet  with  the  little  book. 

As  for  Thomas  and  Jeremiah  (it  is  only  my 
witty  way  of  calling  Tom  and  Jerry),  I  went 
to  the  British  Museum  the  other  day  on  purpose 
to  get  it  ;  but  somehow,  if  you  will  press  the 
question  so  closely,  on  reperusal,  Tom  and 
Jerry  is  not  so  brilliant  as  I  had  supposed  it  to 
be.  The  pictures  are  just  as  fine  as  ever  ;  and 
I  shook  hands  with  broad-backed  Jerry  Haw- 
thorn and  Corinthian  Tom  with  delight,  after 
many  years'  absence.  But  the  style  of  the 
writing,  I  own,  was  not  pleasing  to  me  ;  I  even 
thought  it  a  little  vulgar  —  well !  well  !  other 
writers  have  been  considered  vulgar  —  and  as  a 
description  of  the  sports  and  amusements  of 
London  in  the  ancient  times,  more  curious  than 
amusing. 


124  THACKERAY. 

But  the  pictures  !  —  oh  !  the  pictures  are 
noble  still !  First,  there  is  Jerry  arriving  from 
the  country,  in  a  green  coat  and  leather  gaiters, 
and  being  measured  for  a  fashionable  suit  at 
Corinthian  House,  by  Corinthian  Tom's  tailor. 
Then  away  for  the  career  of  pleasure  and 
fashion.  The  park  !  delicious  excitement  1 
The  theatre  !  the  saloon  !  !  the  green  room  ! !  ! 
Rapturous  bliss  —  the  opera  itself  !  and  then 
perhaps  to  Temple  Bar,  to  knock  down  a  Charley 
there  !  There  are  Jerry  and  Tom,  with  their 
tights  and  little  cocked  hats,  coming  from  the 
opera  —  very  much  as  gentlemen  in  waiting  on 
royalty  are  habited  now.  There  they  are  at 
Almack's  itself,  amidst  a  crowd  of  high-bred 
personages,  with  the  Duke  of  Clarence  himself 
looking  at  them  dancing.  Now,  strange  change, 
they  are  in  Tom  Cribb's  parlor,  where  they 
don't  seem  to  be  a  whit  less  at  home  than  in 
fashion's  gilded  halls  :  and  now  they  are  at 
Newgate,  seeing  the  irons  knocked  off  the 
malefactor's  legs  previous  to  execution.  What 
hardened  ferocity  in  the  countenance  of  the 
desperado  in  yellow  breeches  !  What  com- 
punction in  the  face  of  the  gentleman  in  black 
(who,  I  suppose,  had  been  forging),  and  who 
clasps  his  hands,  and  listens  to  the  chaplain  ! 
Now   we   haste   away   to   merrier   scenes :    to 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  125 

Tattersall's  (ah  gracious  powers  !  what  a  funny 
fellow  that  actor  was  who  performed  Dicky 
Green  in  that  scene  at  the  play  !)  ;  and  now  we 
are  at  a  private  party,  at  which  Corinthian  Tom 
is  waltzing  (and  very  gracefully,  too,  as  you 
must  confess)  with  Corinthian  Kate,  whilst  Bob 
Logic,  the  Oxonian,  is  playing  on  the  piano  ! 

"  After,"  the  text  says,  "  the  Oxonian  had 
played  several  pieces  of  lively  music,  he  re- 
quested as  a  favor  that  Kate  and  his  friend 
Tom  would  perform  a  waltz.  Kate  without 
any  hesitation  immediately  stood  up.  Tom 
offered  his  hand  to  his  fascinating  partner,  and 
the  dance  took  place.  The  plate  conveys  a 
correct  representation  of  the  '  gay  scene '  at 
that  precise  moment.  The  anxiety  of  the  Oxo- 
nian to  witness  the  attitudes  of  the  elegant 
pair  had  nearly  put  a  stop  to  their  movements. 
On  turning  round  from  the  pianoforte  and  pre- 
senting his  comical  mug,  Kate  could  scarcely 
suppress  a  laugh." 

And  no  wonder  ;  just  look  at  it  now  (as  I 
have  copied  it  to  the  best  of  my  humble  ability), 
and  compare  Master  Logic's  countenance  and 
attitude  with  the  splendid  elegance  of  Tom  ! 
Now  every  London  man  is  weary  and  hlase\ 
There  is  an  enjoyment  of  life  in  these  young 
bucks  of  1823  which  contrasts  strangely  with 


126  THACKERAY. 

our  feelings  of  1860.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a 
specimen  of  their  talk  and  walk.  "'If,'  says 
Logic  —  *  if  enjoyment  is  your  mntto,  you  may 
make  the  most  of  an  evening  at  Vauxhall,  more 
than  at  any  other  place  in  the  metropolis.  It 
is  all  free  and  easy.  Stay  as  long  as  you  like, 
and  depart  when  you  think  proper.'  — '  Your 
description  is  so  flattering,'  replied  Jerry,  *  that 
I  do  not  care  how  soon  the  time  arrives  for  us 
to  start.'  Logic  proposed  a  '  hit  of  a  stroll '  in 
order  to  get  rid  of  an  hour  or  two,  which  was 
immediately  accepted  by  Tom  and  Jerry.  A 
turn  or  two  in  Bond  Street,  a  stroll  through  Pic- 
cadilly, a  look  in  at  Tattersall's,  a  ramble 
through  Pall  Mall,  and  a  strut  on  the  Corinthian 
path,  fully  occupied  the  time  of  our  heroes 
until  the  hour  for  dinner  arrived,  when  a  few 
glasses  of  Tom's  rich  wines  soon  put  them  on 
the  qui  vice.  Vauxhall  was  then  the  object 
in  view,  and  the  Trio  started,  bent  upon  en- 
joying the  pleasures  which  this  place  so  amply 
affords." 

How  nobly  those  inverted  commas,  those 
italics,  those  capitals,  bring  out  the  writer's  wit 
and  relieve  the  eye  !  They  are  as  good  as 
jokes,  though  you  mayn't  quite  perceive  the 
point.  Mark  the  varieties  of  lounge  in  which 
the  young  men  indulge  —  now  a  stroll,  then  a 


ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS.  127 

look  in,  then  a  ramble,  aiid  presently  a  strut. 
When  George,  Prince  of  Wales,  was  twenty,  I 
have  read  in  an  old  Magazine,  "  the  Prince's 
lounge "  was  a  peculiar  manner  of  walking 
which  the  young  bucks  imitated.  At  Windsor 
George  III.  had  a  cat's  path  —  a  sly  early  walk 
which  the  good  old  king  took  in  the  gray  morn- 
ing before  his  household  was  astir.  What  w^as 
the  Corinthian  path  here  recorded  ?  Does  any 
antiquary  know  ?  And  what  were  the  rich 
wines  which  our  friends  took,  and  which  ena- 
bled them  to  enjoy  Vauxhall  ?  Vauxhall  is 
gone,  but  the  wines  which  could  occasion  such 
a  delightful  perversion  of  the  intellect  as  to 
enable  it  to  enjoy  ample  pleasures  there,  what 
were  they  ? 

So  the  game  of  life  proceeds,  until  Jerry 
Hawthorn,  the  rustic,  is  fairly  knocked  up  by 
all  this  excitement  and  is  forced  to  go  home, 
and  the  last  picture  represents  him  getting  into 
the  coach  at  the  "  White  Horse  Cellar,"  he 
being  one  of  six  inside,  whilst  his  friends  shake 
him  by  the  hand  ;  whilst  the  sailor  mounts  on 
the  roof  ;  whilst  the  Jews  hang  round  with 
oranges,  knives,  and  sealing-wax  :  whilst  the 
guard  is  closing  the  door.  Where  are  they 
now,  those  sealing-wax  venders  ?  where  are 
the  guards  ?  where  are  the  jolly  teams  ?  where 


-•  28  THACKERAY. 

are  the  coaches  ?  and  where  the  youth  that 
climbed  inside  and  out  of  them  ;  that  heard  the 
merry  horn  which  sounds  no  more  ;  that  saw 
the  sun  rise  over  Stonehenge  ;  that  rubbed 
away  the  bitter  tears  at  night  after  parting  as 
the  coach  sped  on  the  journey  to  school  and 
London  ;  that  looked  out  with  beating  heart  as 
the  milestones  flew  by,  for  the  welcome  corner 
where  began  home  and  holidays  ? 

It  is  night  now  :  and  here  is  home.  Gathered 
under  the  quiet  roof  elders  and  children  lie 
alike  at  rest.  In  the  midst  of  a  great  peace 
and  calm,  the  stars  look  out  from  the  heavens. 
The  silence  is  peopled  with  the  past  ;  sorrowful 
remorses  for  sins  and  shortcomings  —  memories 
of  passionate  joys  and  griefs  rise  out  of  their 
graves,  both  now  alike  calm  and  sad.  Eyes,  as 
I  shut  mine,  look  at  me,  that  have  long  ceased 
to  shine.  The  town  and  the  fair  landscapes 
sleep  under  the  starlight,  wreathed  in  the 
autumn  mists.  Twinkling  among  the  houses  a 
light  keeps  watch  here  and  there,  in  what  may 
be  a  sick -chamber  or  two.  The  clock  tolls 
sweetly  in  the  silent  air.  Here  is  night  and 
rest.  An  awful  sense  of  thanks  makes  the 
heart  swell,  and  the  head  bow,  as  I  pass  to  my 
room  through  the  sleeping  house,  and  feel  as 
though  a  hushed  blessing  were  upon  it. 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  129 


ROUND     ABOUT     THE     CHRISTMAS- 
TREE. 

The  kindly  Christmas-tree,  from  wMch  I 
trust  every  gentle  reader  has  pulled  a  bonbon 
or  two,  is  yet  all  aflame  whilst  I  am  writing, 
and  sparkles  with  the  sweet  fruits  of  its  season. 
You  young  ladies,  may  you  have  plucked  pretty 
giftlings  from  it;  and  out  of  the  cracker  sugar- 
plum which  you  have  split  with  the  captain  or 
the  sweet  young  curate  may  you  have  read  one 
of  those  delicious  conundrums  which  the  con- 
fectioners introduce  into  the  sweetmeats,  and 
which  apply  to  the  cunning  passion  of  love. 
Those  riddles  are  to  be  read  at  your  age,  when 
I  dare  say  they  are  amusing.  As  for  Dolly, 
Merry,  and  Bell,  who  are  standing  at  the  tree, 
they  don't  care  about  the  love-riddle  part,  but 
understand  the  sweet-almond  portion  very  well. 
They  are  four,  five,  six  years  old.  Patience, 
little  people !  A  dozen  merry  Christmases 
more,  and  you  will  be  reading  those  wonderful 
love-conundrums,  too.  As  for  us  elderly  folks, 
we  watch  the  babies  at  their  sport,  and  the 
young  people  pulling  at  the  branches  :  and 
instead  of  finding  bonbons  or  sweeties  in  the 
packets  which  we  pluck  off  the  boughs,  we  find 


130  THACKERAY. 

enclosed  Mr.  Carnifex's  review  of  the  quarter's 
meat  ;  Mr.  Sartor's  compliments,  and  little 
statement  for  self  and  the  young  gentlemen  ; 
and  Madame  de  Sainte-Crinoline's  respects  to 
the  young  ladies,  who  encloses  her  account,  and 
will  send  on  Saturday,  please  ;  or  we  stretch 
our  hand  out  to  the  educational  branch  of  the 
Christmas  -  tree,*  and  there  find  a  lively  and 
amusing  article  from  the  Rev.  Henry  Holy- 
shade,  containing  our  dear  Tommy's  exceed- 
ingly moderate  account  for  the  last  term's 
school  expenses. 

The  tree  yet  sparkles,  I  say.  I  am  writing 
on  the  day  before  Twelfth  Day,  if  you  must 
know  ;  but  already  ever  so  many  of  the  fruits 
have  been  pulled,  and  the  Christmas  lights  have 
gone  out.  Bobby  Miseltow,  who  has  been  stay- 
ing with  us  for  a  week  (and  who  has  been  sleep- 
ing mysteriously  in  the  bathroom),  comes  to 
say  he  is  going  away  to  spend  the  rest  of  the 
holidays  with  his  grandmother  —  and  I  brush 
away  the  manly  tears  of  regret  as  I  part  with 
the  dear  child.  "  Well,  Bob,  good-by,  since  you 
will  go.  Compliments  to  grandmamma.  Thank 
her  for  the  turkey.  Here  's  "  —  (A  slight  pe- 
cuniary transaction  takes  place  at  this  juncture, 
and  Bob  nods  and  loinks,  and  puts  his  hand  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket.)  "  You  have  had  a  pleasant 
week?" 


ROUND  A  BOUT    PAPERS.  131 

Bob, — "Haven't  I!"  (And  exit,  anxious 
to  knov)  the  amount  of  coin  which  has  Just  changed 
hands.} 

He  is  gone,  and  as  the  clear  boy  vanishes 
through  the  door  (behind  which  I  see  him  per- 
fectly), I  too  cast  up  a  little  account  of  our 
past  Christmas  week.  When  Bob's  holidays  are 
over,  and  the  printer  has  sent  me  back  this 
manuscript,  I  know  Christmas  will  be  an  old 
story.  All  the  fruit  will  be  ofE  the  Christmas- 
tree  then  ;  the  crackers  will  have  cracked  off  ; 
the  almonds  will  have  been  crunched  ;  and  the 
sweet-bitter  riddles  will  have  been  read  ;  the 
lights  will  have  perished  ofE  the  dark  green 
boughs  ;  the  toys  growing  on  them  will  have 
been  distributed,  fought  for-,  cherished,  neg- 
lected, broken.  Ferdinand  and  Fidelia  will 
each  keep  out  of  it  (be  still,  my  gushing  heart!) 
the  remembrance  of  a  riddle  read  together,  of 
a  double-almond  munched  together,  and  the 
moiety  of  an  exploded  cracker.  .  .  ,  The 
maids,  I  say,  will  have  taken  down  all  that 
holly  stuff  and  nonsense  about  the  clocks, 
lamps,  and  looking-glasses,  the  dear  boys  will 
be  back  at  school,  fondly  thinking  of  the  pan- 
tomime-fairies whom  they  have  seen  ;  whose 
gaudy  gossamer  wings  are  battered  by  this 
time  ;   and  whose  pink  cotton  (or  silk  is  it  ?) 


132  THACKERAY. 

lower  extremities  are  all  dingy  and  dusty.  Yet 
but  a  few  days,  Bob,  and  flakes  of  paint  will 
have  cracked  off  the  fairy  flower-bowers,  and 
the  revolving  temples  of  adamantine  lustre  will 
be  as  shabb}^  as  the  city  of  Pekin.  When  you 
read  this,  will  Clown  still  be  going  on  lolling 
his  tongue  out  of  his  mouth,  and  saying,  "  How 
are  you  to-morrow  ?  "  To-morrow,  indeed  ! 
He  must  be  almost  ashamed  of  himself  (if  that 
cheek  is  still  capable  of  the  blush  of  shame)  for 
asking  the  absurd  question.  To-morrow,  in- 
deed !  To-morrow  the  diffugient  snows  will 
give  place  to  Spring  ;  the  snowdrops  will  lift 
their  heads  ;  Ladyday  may  be  expected,  and 
the  pecuniary  duties  peculiar  to  that  feast ;  in 
place  of  bonbons,  trees  will  have  an  eruption  of 
light  green  knobs  ;  the  white  bait  season  will 
bloom  ...  as  if  one  need  go  on  describing 
these  vernal  phenomena,  when  Christmas  is  still 
here,  though  ending,  and  the  subject  of  my  dis- 
course ! 

We  have  all  admired  the  illustrated  papers, 
and  noted  how  boisterously  jolly  they  become 
at  Christmas  time.  What  wassail-bowls,  robin- 
redbreasts,  waits,  snow  landscapes,  bursts  of 
Christmas  song  !  And  then  to  think  that  these 
festivities  are  prepared  months  before  —  that 
these   Christmas   pieces   are   prophetic !     How 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  133 

kind  of  artists  and  poets  to  devise  the  festivities 
beforehand,  and  serve  them  pat  at  the  proper 
time !  We  ought  to  be  grateful  to  them,  as  to 
the  cook  who  gets  up  at  midnight  and  sets  the 
pudding  a-boiiiug,  which  is  to  feast  us  at  six 
o'clock.  I  often  think  with  gratitude  of  the 
famous  Mr.  Xelson  Lee  —  the  author  of  I  don't 
know  how  many  hundred  glorious  pantomimes 
—  walking  by  the  summer  wave  at  Margate,  or 
Brighton  perhaps,  revolving  in  his  mind  the 
idea  of  some  new  gorgeous  spectacle  of  faery, 
which  the  winter  shall  see  complete.  He  is 
like  the  cook  at  midnight  (si  parva  licet).  He 
watches  and  thinks.  He  pounds  the  sparkling 
sugar  of  benevolence,  the  plums  of  fancy,  the 
sweetmeats  of  fun,  the  figs  of  —  well,  the  figs 
of  fairy  fiction,  let  us  say,  and  pops  the  whole 
in  the  seething  caldron  of  imagination,  and  at 
due  season  serves  up  the  Pantomime. 

Very  few  men  in  the  course  of  nature  can 
expect  to  see  all  the  pantomimes  in  one  season, 
but  I  hope  to  the  end  of  my  life  I  shall  never 
forego  reading  about  them  in  that  delicious 
sheet  of  The  Times  which  appears  on  the  morn- 
ing after  Boxing-day.  Perhaps  reading  is  even 
better  than  seeing.  The  best  way,  I  think,  is 
to  say  you  are  ill,  lie  in  bed,  and  have  the 
paper  for  two  hours,  reading  all  the  way  down 


134  THACKERAY. 

from  Drury  Lane  to  the  Britannia  at  Hoxton. 
Bob  and  I  went  to  two  pantomimes.  One  was 
at  the  Theatre  of  Fancy,  and  the  other  at  the 
Fairy  Opera,  and  I  don't  know  which  we  liked 
the  best. 

At  the  Fancy,  we  saw  "  Harlequin  Hamlet, 
or  Daddy's  Ghost  and  Nunky's  Pison,"  which 
is  all  very  well  —  but,  gentlemen,  if  you  don't 
respect  Shakespeare,  to  whom  will  you  be  civil  ? 
The  palace  and  ramparts  of  Elsiuore  by  moon 
and  snowlight  is  one  of  Loutherbourg's  finest 
efforts.  The  banqueting  hall  of  the  palace  is 
illuminated :  the  peaks  and  gables  glitter  with 
the  snow  :  the  sentinels  march  blowing  their 
fingers  with  the  cold  —  the  freezing  of  the  nose 
of  one  of  them  is  very  neatly  and  dexterously 
arranged  :  the  snow  storm  rises  :  the  winds 
howl  awfully  along  the  battlements :  the  waves 
come  curling,  leaping,  foaming  to  shore.  Ham- 
let's umbrella  is  whirled  away  in  the  storm. 
He  and  his  two  friends  stamp  on  each  other's 
toes  to  keep  them  warm.  The  storm-spirits 
rise  in  the  air,  and  are  whirled  howling  round 
the  palace  and  the  rocks.  My  eyes !  what  tiles 
and  chimney-pots  fly  hurtling  through  the  air  ! 
As  the  storm  reaches  its  height  (here  the  wind 
instruments  come  in  with  prodigious  effect,  and 
I  compliment  Mr.  Brumby  and  the  violoncellos) 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  135 

—  as  the  snow-storm  rises  (queek,  queek,  queek, 
go  the  fiddles,  and  then  thrumpty  thrump  comes 
a  pizzicato  movement  in  Bob  Major,  which  sends 
a  shiver  into  your  very  boot  soles)  the  thmi- 
der-clouds  deepen  (bong,  bong,  bong,  from  the 
violoncellos).  The  forked  lightning  quivers 
through  the  clouds  in  a  zigzag  scream  of  vio- 
lins —  and  look,  look,  look !  as  the  frothing, 
roaring  waves  come  rushing  up  the  battlements, 
and  over  the  reeling  parapet,  each  hissing  wave 
becomes  a  ghost,  sends  the  gun-carriages  rolling 
over  the  platform,  and  plunges  howling  into  the 
water  again. 

Hamlet's  mother  comes  on  to  the  battle- 
ments to  look  for  her  son.  The  storm  whips 
her  umbrella  out  of  her  hands,  and  she  retires 
screaming  in  pattens. 

The  cabs  on  the  stand  in  the  great  market- 
place at  Elsinore  are  seen  to  drive  off,  and 
several  people  are  drowned.  The  gas-lamps 
along  the  street  are  wrenched  from  their  foun- 
dations, and  shoot  through  the  troubled  air. 
Whist,  rush,  hish  !  how  the  rain  roars  and 
pours  !  The  darkness  becomes  awful,  always 
deepened  by  the  power  of  the  music  —  and  see 
—  in  the  midst  of  a  rush,  and  whirl,  and  scream 
of  spirits  of  air  and  wave  —  what  is  that  ghastly 
figure  moving  hither  ?     It  becomes  bigger,  big- 


136  THACKERAY. 

ger,  as  it  advances  down  the  platform  —  more 
ghastly,  more  horrible,  enormous  !  It  is  as  tall 
as  the  whole  stage.  It  seems  to  be  advancing 
on  the  stalls  and  pit,  and  the  whole  house 
screams  with  terror,  as  the  Ghost  of  the  late 
Hamlet  comes  in,  and  begins  to  speak.  Several 
people  faint,  and  the  light-fingered  gentry  pick 
pockets  furiously  in  the  darkness. 

In  the  pitchy  darkness,  this  awful  figure 
throwing  his  eyes  about,  the  gas  in  the  boxes 
shuddering  out  of  sight,  and  the  wind-instru- 
ments bugling  the  most  horrible  wails,  the  bold- 
est spectator  must  have  felt  friglitened.  But 
hark !  what  is  that  silver  shimmer  of  the 
fiddles  !  Is  it  —  can  it  be  —  the  gray  dawn 
peeping  in  the  stormy  east  ?  The  ghost's  eyes 
look  blankly  towards  it,  and  roll  a  ghastly 
agony.  Quicker,  quicker  ply  the  violins  of 
Phcebus  Apollo.  Redder,  redder  grow  the 
orient  clouds.  Cockadoodledoo  !  crows  that 
great  cock  which  has  just  come  out  on  the  roof 
of  the  palace.  And  now  the  round  sun  himself 
pops  up  from  behind  the  waves  of  night. 
Where  is  the  ghost  ?  He  is  gone  !  Purple 
shadows  of  morn  "  slant  o'er  the  snowy  sward,' ' 
the  city  wakes  up  in  life  and  sunshine,  and  we 
confess  we  are  very  much  relieved  at  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  ghost.  We  don't  like  those 
dark  scenes  in  panto^^imes. 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  137 

After  the  usual  business,  that  Ophelia  should 
be  turned  into  Columbine  was  to  be  expected  ; 
but  I  confess  I  was  a  little  shocked  wlien  Ham- 
let's mother  became  Pantaloon,  and  was  in- 
stantly knocked  down  by  Clown  Claudius. 
Grimaldi  is  getting  a  little  old  now,  but  for 
real  humor  there  are  few  clowns  like  him. 
Mr.  Shuter,  as  the  grave-digger,  was  chaste  and 
comic,  as  he  always  is,  and  the  scene-painters 
surpassed  themselves. 

"  Harlequin  Conqueror  and  the  field  of 
Hastings,"  at  the  other  house,  is  very  pleasant 
too.  The  irascible  William  is  acted  with  great 
vigor  by  Snoxall,  and  the  battle  of  Hastings  is 
a  good  piece  of  burlesque.  Some  trifling  liber- 
ties are  taken  with  history,  but  what  liberties 
will  not  the  merry  genius  of  pantomime  permit 
himself  ?  At  the  battle  of  Hastings,  William 
is  on  the  point  of  being  defeated  by  the  Sussex 
volunteers,  very  elegantly  led  by  the  always 
pretty  Miss  Waddy  (as  Haco  Sharpshooter), 
when  a  shot  from  the  Xormans  kills  Harold. 
The  fairy  Edith  hereupon  comes  forward,  and 
finds  his  body,  which  straightway  leaps  up  a 
live  harlequin,  whilst  the  Conqueror  makes  an 
excellent  clown,  and  the  Archbishop  of  Bayeux 
a  diverting  pantaloon,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Perhaps   these  are  not  the   pantomimes   we 


138  THACKERAY. 

really  saw  ;  but  one  description  will  do  as  well 
as  another.  The  plots,  you  see,  are  a  little  in- 
tricate and  difficult  to  understand  in  panto- 
mimes ;  and  I  may  have  mixed  up  one  with 
another.  That  I  was  at  the  theatre  on  Boxing- 
night  is  certain  —  but  the  pit  was  so  full  that  I 
could  only  see  fairy  legs  glittering  in  the  dis- 
tance, as  I  stood  at  the  door.  And  if  I  was 
badly  ofip,  I  think  there  was  a  young  gentleman 
behind  me  worse  off  still.  I  own  that  he  has 
good  reason  (though  others  have  not)  to  speak 
ill  of  me  behind  my  back,  and  hereby  beg  his 
pardon. 

Likewise  to  the  gentleman  who  picked  up  a 
party  in  Piccadilly,  who  had  slipped  and  fallen 
in  the  snow,  and  was  there  on  his  back,  uttering 
energetic  expressions  ;  that  party  begs  to  offer 
thanks,  and  compliments  of  the  season. 

Bob's  behavior  on  New  Year's  day,  I  can 
assure  Dr.  Holyshade,  was  highly  creditable  to 
the  boy.  He  had  expressed  a  determination  to 
partake  of  every  dish  which  was  put  on  the 
table  ;  but  after  soup,  fish,  roast-beef,  and  roast- 
goose,  he  retired  from  active  business  until  the 
pudding  and  mince-pies  made  their  appearance, 
of  which  he  partook  liberally,  but  not  too  freely. 
And  he  greatly  advanced  in  my  good  opinion 
by  praising  the  punch,  which  was  of  my  own 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  139 

manufacture,  and  which  some  gentlemen  pre- 
sent (Mr.  O'M — g — n,  amongst  others)  pro- 
nounced to  be  too  weak.  Too  weak  !  A  bottle 
of  rum,  a  bottle  of  Madeira,  half  a  bottle  of 
brandy,  and  two  bottles  and  a  half  of  water  — 
can  this  mixture  be  said  to  be  too  weak  for  any 
mortal  ?  Our  young  friend  amused  the  com- 
pany during  the  evening  by  exhibiting  a  two- 
shilling  magic-lantern,  which  he  had  purchased, 
and  likewise  by  singing  "  Sally,  come  up  !  "  a 
quaint,  but  rather  monotonous  melody,  which 
I  am  told  is  sung  by  the  poor  negro  on  the 
banks  of  the  broad  Mississippi. 

What  other  enjoyments  did  we  proffer  for 
the  child's  amusement  during  the  Christmas 
week  ?  A  great  philosopher  was  giving  a  lec- 
ture to  young  folks  at  the  British  Institution. 
But  when  this  diversion  was  proposed  to  our 
young  friend  Bob,  he  said,  "  Lecture  ?  no,  thank 
you.  Not  as  I  knows  on,"  and  made  sarcastic 
signals  on  his  nose.  Perhaps  he  is  of  Dr.  John- 
sou's  opinion  about  lectures  :  "  Lectures,  sir  ! 
what  man  would  go  to  hear  that  imperfectly  at 
a  lecture,  which  he  can  read  at  leisure  in  a 
book  ?  "  /  never  went,  of  my  own  choice,  to  a 
lecture  ;  that  I  can  vow.  As  for  sermons,  they 
are  different  ;  I  delight  in  them,  and  they  can- 
not, of  course,  be  too  long. 


140  THACKERAY. 

Well,  we  partook  of  yet  other  Christmas 
delights  besides  pantomime,  pudding,  and  pie. 
One  glorious,  one  delightful,  one  most  unlucky 
and  pleasant  day,  we  drove  in  a  brougham,  with 
a  famous  horse,  which  carried  us  more  quickly 
and  briskly  than  any  of  your  vulgar  railways, 
over  Battersea  Bridge,  on  which  the  horse's 
hoofs  rung  as  if  it  had  been  iron  ;  through  sub- 
urban villages,  plum-caked  with  snow  ;  under 
a  leaden  sky,  in  which  the  sun  hung  like  a  red- 
hot  warming-pan  ;  by  pond  after  pond,  where 
not  only  men  and  boys,  but  scores  after  scores 
of  women  and  girls,  were  sliding,  and  roaring, 
and  clapping  their  lean  old  sides  with  laughter, 
as  they  tumbled  down,  and  their  hobnailed 
shoes  flew  up  in  the  air  ;  the  air  frosty  with  a 
lilac  haze,  through  which  villas,  and  commons, 
and  churches,  and  plantations  glimmered.  We 
drive  up  the  hill,  Bob  and  I ;  we  make  the  last 
two  miles  in  eleven  minutes  ;  we  pass  that  poor, 
armless  man  who  sits  there  in  the  cold,  follow- 
ing you  with  his  eyes.  I  don't  give  anything, 
and  Bob  looks  disappointed.  We  are  set  down 
neatly  at  the  gate,  and  a  horse-holder  opens  the 
brougham  door.  I  don't  give  anything  ;  again 
disappointment  on  Bob's  part.  I  pay  a  shil- 
ling apiece,  and  we  enter  into  the  glorious 
building,  which  is  decorated  for  Christmas,  and 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  141 

straightway  forgetfulness  on  Bob's  part  of 
everything  but  that  magnificent  scene.  The 
enormous  edifice  is  all  decorated  for  Bob  and 
Christmas.  The  stalls,  the  columns,  the  foun- 
tains, courts,  statues,  splendors,  are  all  crowned 
for  Christmas.  The  delicious  negro  is  singing 
his  Alabama  choruses  for  Christmas  and  Bob. 
He  has  scarcely  done,  when,  Tootarootatoo  ! 
Mr.  Punch  is  performing  his  surprising  actions, 
and  hanging  the  beadle.  The  stalls  are  deco- 
rated. The  refreshment-tables  are  piled  with 
good  things  ;  at  many  fountains  "  Mulled 
Claret  "  is  written  up  in  appetizmg  capitals, 
"  Mulled  Claret  —  oh,  jolly  !  How  cold  it  is  !  " 
says  Bob  ;  I  pass  on.  "  It's  only  three  o'clock," 
says  Bob.  "  No,  only  three,"  I  say  meekly. 
"We  dine  at  seven,"  sighs  Bob,  "  and  it 's  so-o-o 
coo-old."  I  still  would  take  no  hints.  Xo 
claret,  no  refreshment,  no  sandwiches,  no  sau- 
sage rolls  for  Bob.  At  last  I  am  obliged  to 
tell  him  all.  Just  before  we  left  home,  a  little 
Christmas  bill  popped  in  at  the  door  and 
emptied  my  purse  at  the  threshold.  I  forgot 
all  about  the  transaction,  and  had  to  borrow 
half  a  crown  from  John  Coachman  to  pay  for 
our  entrance  into  the  palace  of  delight.  Now 
you  see,  Bob,  why  I  could  not  treat  you  on  that 
second  of  January  when  we  drove  to  the  pal- 


142  THACKERAY. 

ace  together  ;  when  the  girls  and  boys  were 
slidmg  on  the  ponds  at  Dulwich ;  when  the 
darklmg  river  was  full  of  floating  ice,  and 
the  sun  was  like  a  warming-pan  in  the  leaden 
sky. 

Qne  more  Christmas  sight  we  had,  of  course  ; 
and  that  sight  I  think  I  like  as  well  as  Bob 
himself  at  Christmas,  and  at  all  seasons.  We 
went  to  a  certain  garden  of  delight  where, 
whatever  your  cares  are,  I  think  you  can  man- 
age to  forget  some  of  them,  and  muse,  and  be 
not  unhappy  ;  to  a  garden  beginning  with  a  Z, 
which  is  as  lively  as  Noah's  ark  ;  where  the 
fox  has  brought  his  brush,  and  the  cock  has 
brought  his  comb,  and  the  elephant  has  brought 
his  trunk,  and  the  kangaroo  has  brought  his 
bag,  and  the  condor  his  old  white  wig  and  black 
satin  hood.  On  this  day  it  was  so  cold  that 
the  white  bears  winked  their  pink  eyes,  as  they 
plapped  up  and  down  by  their  pool,  and  seemed 
to  say,  "  Aha,  this  weather  reminds  us  of  our 
dear  home  !  "  "  Cold  !  bah  !  I  have  got  such 
a  warm  coat,"  says  brother  Bruin,  "I  don't 
mind  ; "  and  he  laughs  on  his  pole,  and  clucks 
down  a  bun.  The  squealing  hysenas  gnashed 
their  teeth  and  laughed  at  us  quite  refreshingly 
at  their  window  ;  and,  cold  as  it  was.  Tiger, 
Tiger,    burning   bright,   glared    at   us   red-hot 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  143 

through  his  bars,  aiid  snorted  blasts  of  hell. 
The  woolly  camel  leered  at  us  quite  kindly  as 
he  paced  round  his  rings  on  his  silent  pads. 
We  went  to  our  favorite  places.  Our  dear 
wombat  came  up,  and  had  himself  scratched 
very  affably.  Our  fellow  -  creatures  in  the 
monkey-room  held  out  their  little  black  hands, 
and  piteously  asked  us  for  Christmas  alms. 
Those  darling  alligators  on  their  rock  winked 
at  us  in  the  most  friendly  way.  The  solemn 
eagles  sat  alone,  and  scowled  at  us  from  their 
peaks  ;  whilst  little  Tom  Ratel  tumbled  over 
head  and  heels  for  us  in  his  usual  diverting 
manner.  If  I  have  cares  in  my  mind,  I  come 
to  the  Zoo,  and  fancy  they  don't  pass  the  gate. 
I  recognize  my  friends,  my  enemies,  in  count- 
less cages.  I  entertained  the  eagle,  the  vulture, 
the  old  billy-goat,  and  the  black-pated,  crimson- 
necked,  blear-eyed,  baggy,  hook -beaked  old 
marabou  stork  yesterday  at  dinner  ;  and  when 
Bob's  aunt  came  to  tea  in  the  evening,  and 
asked  him  what  he  had  seen,  he  stepped  up  to 
her  gravely,  and  said  — 

"  First  I  saw  the  white  bear,  then  I  saw  the  black. 
Then  I  saw  the  camel  with  a  hump  upon  his  back. 

Chorus  of  Children. 

"  Then  I  saw  the  camel  with  a  hump  upon  his  back  ! 
Then  I  saw  the  gray  wolf,  witli  mutton  in  lus  maw  ; 


144  THACKERAY. 

Then  I  saw  the  wombat  waddle  in  the  straw  ; 
Then  I  saw  the  elephant  with  his  waving  trunk, 
Then  I  saw  the  monkeys  —  mercy,  how  unpleasantly  they 
smelt !  " 

There.  No  one  can  beat  that  piece  of  wit,  can 
he.  Bob  ?  And  so  it  is  all  over  ;  but  we  had 
a  jolly  time,  whilst  you  were  with  us,  had  n't 
we  ?  Present  my  respects  to  the  doctor  ;  and 
I  hope,  my  boy,  we  may  spend  another  merry 
Christmas  next  year. 


ON  BEING  FOUND  OUT. 

At  the  close  (let  us  say)  of  Queen  Anne's 
reign,  when  I  was  a  boy  at  a  private  and  pre- 
paratory school  for  young  gentlemen,  I  re- 
member the  wiseacre  of  a  master  ordering  us 
all,  one  night,  to  march  into  a  little  garden  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  and  thence  to  proceed 
one  by  one  into  a  tool  or  hen  house  (I  was 
but  a  tender  little  thing  just  put  into  short 
clothes,  and  can't  exactly  say  whether  the  house 
was  for  tools  or  hens),  and  in  that  house  to 
put  our  hands  into  a  sack  which  stood  on  a 
bench,  a  candle  burning  beside  it.  I  put  my 
hand  into  the  sack.  My  hand  came  out  quite 
black.      I  went  and  joined  the  other  boys  in 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  145 

the  school  -  room  ;  and  all  their  hands  were 
black  too. 

B}^  reason  of  my  tender  age  (and  there  are 
some  critics  who,  1  hope,  will  be  satisfied  by 
my  acknowledging  that  I  am  a  hundred  and 
fifty-six  next  birthday)  I  could  not  understand 
what  was  the  meaning  of  this  night  excursion 
—  this  candle,  this  tool-house,  this  bag  of  soot. 
I  think  we  little  boys  were  taken  out  of  our 
sleep  to  be  brought  to  the  ordeal.  We  came, 
then,  and  showed  our  little  hands  to  the  mas- 
ter ;  washed  them  or  not  —  most  probably,  I 
should  say,  not  —  and  so  went  bewildered  back 
to  bed. 

Something  had  been  stolen  in  the  school  that 
day  ;  and  Mr.  Wiseacre  having  read  in  a  book 
of  an  ingenious  method  of  finding  out  a  thief 
by  making  him  put  his  hand  into  a  sack  (which, 
if  guilty,  the  rogue  would  shirk  from  doing), 
all  we  boys  were  subjected  to  the  trial.  Good- 
ness knows  what  the  lost  object  was,  or  who 
stole  it.  We  all  had  black  hands  to  show  the 
master.  And  the  thief,  whoever  he  was,  was 
not  Found  Out  that  time. 

I  wonder  if  the  rascal  is  alive  —  an  elderly 
scoundrel  he  must  be  by  this  time  ;  and  a  hoary 
old  hypocrite,  to  whom  an  old  school  -  fellow 
presents  his  kindest  regards  —  parenthetically 


146  THACKEKAY. 

remarking  what  a  dreadful  place  that  private 
school  was  ;  cold,  chilblains,  bad  dinners,  not 
enough  victuals,  and  caning  awful  !  —  Are  you 
alive  still,  I  say,  you  nameless  villain,  who  es- 
caped discovery  on  that  day  of  crime  ?  I  hope 
you  have  escaped  often  since,  old  sinner.  Ah, 
what  a  lucky  thing  it  is,  for  you  and  me,  my 
man,  that  we  are  not  found  out  in  all  our  pec- 
cadilloes ;  and  that  our  backs  can  slip  away 
from  the  master  and  the  cane  ! 

Just  consider  what  life  would  be,  if  every 
rogue  was  found  out,  and  flogged  coram  populo  ! 
What  a  butchery,  what  an  indecency,  what  an 
endless  swishing  of  the  rod  !  Don't  cry  out 
about  my  misanthropy.  My  good  friend 
Mealymouth,  I  will  trouble  you  to  tell  me,  do 
you  go  to  church  ?  When  there,  do  you  say, 
or  do  you  not,  that  you  are  a  miserable  sinner, 
and  saying  so  do  you  believe  or  disbelieve  it  ? 
If  you  are  a  M.  S.,  don't  you  deserve  cor- 
rection, and  are  n't  you  grateful  if  you  are  to 
be  let  off  ?  I  say  again  what  a  blessed  thing  it 
is  that  we  are  not  all  found  out ! 

Just  picture  to  yourself  everybody  who  does 
wrong  being  found  out,  and  punished  accord- 
ingly. Fancy  all  the  boys  in  all  the  school 
being  whipped  ;  and  then  the  assistants,  and 
then  the  head  master  (Dr.  Badford  let  us  call 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  147 

him).  Fancy  the  provost-marshal  being  tied 
up,  having  previously  superintended  the  cor- 
rection of  the  whole  army.  After  the  young 
gentlemen  have  had  their  turn  for  the  faulty 
exercises,  fancy  Dr.  Lincolnsinn  being  taken  up 
for  certain  faults  in  his  Essay  and  Review. 
After  the  clergyman  has  cried  his  peccavi, 
suppose  we  hoist  up  a  bishop,  and  give  him 
a  couple  of  dozen  !  (I  see  my  Lord  Bishop  of 
Double  -  Gloucester  sitting  in  a  very  uneasy 
posture  on  his  right  reverend  bench.)  After 
we  have  cast  off  the  bishop,  what  are  we  to  say 
to  the  Minister  who  appointed  him  ?  My  Lord 
Cinqwarden,  it  is  painful  to  have  to  use  per- 
sonal correction  to  a  boy  of  your  age  ;  but 
really  .  .  .  Siste  tandem,  carnif ex  !  The  butch- 
ery is  too  horrible.  The  hand  drops  power- 
less, appalled  at  the  quantity  of  birch  which 
it  must  cut  and  brandish.  I  am  glad  we  are 
not  all  found  out,  I  say  again  ;  and  protest, 
my  dear  brethren,  against  our  having  our  de- 
serts. 

To  fancy  all  men  found  out  and  punished  is 
bad  enough ;  but  imagine  all  the  women  found 
out  in  the  distinguished  social  circle  in  which 
you  and  I  have  the  honor  to  move.  Is  it  not  a 
mercy  that  a  many  of  these  fair  criminals  re- 
main unpunished  and  undiscovered  !    There  is 


148  THACKERAY. 

Mrs.  Longbow,  who  is  forever  practicing,  and 
who  shoots  poisoned  arrows,  too ;  when  you 
meet  her  you  don't  call  her  liar,  and  charge 
her  with  the  wickedness  she  has  done  and  is 
doing.  There  is  Mrs.  Painter,  who  passes  for 
a  most  respectable  woman,  and  a  model  in  so- 
ciety. There  is  no  use  in  saying  what  you 
really  know  regarding  her  and  her  goings  on. 
There  is  Diana  Hunter  —  what  a  little  haughty 
prude  it  is  ;  and  yet  we  know  stories  about  her 
which  are  not  altogether  edifying.  I  say  it  is 
best  for  the  sake  of  the  good,  that  the  bad 
should  not  all  be  found  out.  You  don't  want 
your  children  to  know  the  history  of  that  lady 
in  the  next  box,  who  is  so  handsome,  and  whom 
they  admire  so.  Ah  me,  what  would  life  be  if 
we  were  all  found  out  and  punished  for  all 
our  faults  ?  Jack  Ketch  would  be  in  perma- 
nence ;  and  then  who  would  hang  Jack  Ketch  ? 
They  talk  of  murderers  being  pretty  cer- 
tainly found  out.  Psha !  I  have  heard  an 
authority  awfully  competent  vow  and  declare 
that  scores  and  hundreds  of  murders  are  com- 
mitted, and  nobody  is  the  wiser.  That  terrible 
man  mentioned  one  or  two  ways  of  committing 
murder,  which  he  maintained  were  quite  com- 
mon, and  were  scarcely  ever  found  out.  A 
man,  for  instance,  comes  home  to  his  wife,  and 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  149 

.  .  .  but  I  pause  —  I  know  that  this  Magazine 
has  a  very  large  circulation.  Hundreds  and 
hundreds  of  thousands  —  why  not  say  a  million 
of  people  at  once  ?  —  well,  say  a  million,  read 
it.  And  amongst  these  countless  readers,  I 
might  be  teaching  some  monster  how  to  make 
away  with  his  wife  without  being  found  out, 
some  fiend  of  a  woman  how  to  destroy  her  dear 
husband.  I  will  not  then  tell  this  easy  and  sim- 
ple way  of  murder,  as  communicated  to  me 
by  a  most  respectable  party  in  the  confidence 
of  private  intercourse.  Suppose  some  gentle 
reader  were  to  try  this  most  simple  and  easy 
receipt  —  it  seems  to  me  almost  infallible  — 
and  come  to  grief  in  consequence,  and  be  found 
out  and  hanged  ?  Should  I  ever  pardon  myself 
for  liaving  been  the  means  of  doing  injury  to  a 
single  one  of  our  esteemed  subscribers  ?  The 
prescription  whereof  I  speak  — that  is  to  say, 
whereof  I  don't  speak  —  shall  be  buried  in  this 
bosom.  Xo,  I  am  a  humane  man.  I  am  not 
one  of  your  Bluebeards  to  go  and  say  to  my 
wife,  "My  dear  !  I  am  going  away  for  a  few 
days  to  Brighton.  Here  are  all  the  keys  of  the 
house.  You  may  open  every  door  and  closet, 
except  the  one  at  the  end  of  the  oak-room  op- 
posite the  fireplace,  with  the  little  bronze  Shake- 
speare on  the  mantelpiece  (or  what  not)."     I 


150  THACKERAY. 

don't  say  this  to  a  woman  —  unless,  to  be  sure, 
I  want  to  get  rid  of  her  —  because,  after  such  a 
caution,  I  know  she  '11  peep  into  the  closet.  I 
say  nothing  about  the  closet  at  all.  I  keep  the 
key  in  my  pocket,  and  a  being  whom  I  love, 
but  who,  as  I  know,  has  many  weaknesses,  out 
of  harm's  way.  You  toss  up  your  head,  dear 
angel,  drub  on  the  ground  with  your  lovely  lit- 
tle feet,  on  the  table  with  your  sweet  rosy 
fingers,  and  cry,  "  Oh,  sneerer !  You  don't 
know  the  depth  of  woman's  feeling,  the  lofty 
scorn  of  all  deceit,  the  entire  absence  of  mean 
curiosity  in  the  sex,  or  never,  never  would  you 
libel  us  so!  "  Ah,  Delia !  dear,  dear  Delia!  It 
is  because  I  fancy  I  do  know  something  about 
you  (not  all,  mind  —  no,  no  ;  no  man  knows 
that).  Ah,  my  bride,  my  ringdove,  my  rose, 
my  poppet,  —  choose,  in  fact,  whatever  name 
you  like,  —  bulbul  of  my  grove,  fountain  of  my 
desert,  sunshine  of  my  darkling  life,  and  joy  of 
my  dungeoned  existence,  it  is  because  I  do  know 
a  little  about  you  that  I  conclude  to  say  noth- 
ing of  that  private  closet,  and  keep  my  key  in 
my  pocket.  You  take  away  that  closet  -  key 
then,  and  the  house-key.  You  lock  Delia  in. 
You  keep  her  out  of  harm's  way  and  gadding, 
and  so  she  never  can  be  found  out. 

And  yet  by  little  strange  accidents  and  coin- 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  151 

cidents  how  we  are  being  found  out  every  day. 
You  remember  that  old  story  of  the  Abbd 
Kakatoes,  who  told  the  company  at  supper  one 
night  how  the  first  confession  he  ever  received 
was  —  from  a  murderer,  let  us  say.  Presently 
enters  to  sapper  the  Marquis  de  Croquemitaine. 
"  Palsambleu,  abbd  !  "  says  the  brilliant  mar- 
quis, taking  a  pinch  of  snuff,  "are  you  here? 
Gentlemen  and  ladies  !  I  was  the  abba's  first 
penitent,  and  I  made  him  a  confession,  which  I 
promise  you  astonished  him." 

To  be  sure  how  queerly  things  are  found 
out !  Here  is  an  instance  :  Only  the  other  day 
I  was  writing  in  these  Roundabout  Papers  about 
a  certain  man,  whom  I  facetiously  called  Baggs, 
and  who  had  abused  me  to  my  friends,  who  of 
course  told  me.  Shortly  after  that  paper  was 
published  another  friend  —  Sacks  let  us  call  him 
—  scowls  fiercely  at  me  as  I  am  sitting  in  per- 
fect good-humor  at  the  club,  and  passes  on 
without  speaking.  A  cut.  A  quarrel.  Sacks 
thinks  it  is  about  him  that  I  was  writing  : 
whereas,  upon  my  honor  and  conscience,  I 
never  had  him  once  in  my  mind,  and  was  point- 
ing my  moral  from  quite  another  man.  But 
don't  you  see,  by  this  wrath  of  the  guilty-con- 
scienced  Sacks,  that  he  had  been  abusing  me 
too  ?     He  has  owned  himself  guilty,  never  hav- 


152  THACKERAY. 

ing  been  accused.  He  has  winced  when  nobody 
thought  of  hitting  him.  I  did  but  put  the  cap 
out,  and  madly  butting  and  chafing,  behold  my 
friend  rushes  out  to  put  his  head  into  it!  Xever 
mind,  Sacks,  you  are  found  out;  but  I  bear  you 
no  malice,  my  man. 

And  yet  to  be  found  out,  I  know  from  my 
own  experience,  must  be  painful  and  odious, 
and  cruelly  mortifying  to  the  inward  vanity. 
Suppose  I  am  a  poltroon,  let  us  say.  With 
fierce  moustache,  loud  talk,  plentiful  oaths,  and 
an  immense  stick,  I  keep  up,  nevertheless,  a 
character  for  courage.  I  swear  fearfully  at 
cabmen  and  women  ;  brandish  my  bludgeon, 
and  perhaps  knock  down  a  little  man  or  two 
with  it  :  brag  of  the  images  which  I  break  at 
the  shooting  -  gallery,  and  pass  amongst  my 
friends  for  a  whiskery  fire-eater,  afraid  of  nei- 
ther man  nor  dragon.  Ah  me !  Suppose  some 
brisk  little  chap  steps  up  and  gives  me  a  caning 
in  St.  James's  Street,  with  all  the  heads  of  my 
friends  looking  out  of  all  the  club  windows. 
My  reputation  is  gone.  I  frighten  no  man 
more.  My  nose  is  pulled  by  whipper-snappers^ 
who  jump  up  on  a  chair  to  reach  it.  I  am 
found  out.  And  in  the  days  of  my  triumphs, 
when  people  were  yet  afraid  of  me,  and  were 
taken  in  by  my  swagger,  I  always  knew  that  I 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  153 

was  a  lilj-liver,  and  expected  that  I  should  be 
found  out  some  day. 

That  certamty  of  being  found  out  must  haunt 
and  depress  many  a  bold  braggadocio  spirit. 
Let  us  say  it  is  a  clergyman,  who  can  pump 
copious  floods  of  tears  out  of  his  own  eyes  and 
those  of  his  audience.  He  thinks  to  himself, 
"  I  am  but  a  poor  swindling,  chattering  rogue. 
My  bills  are  unpaid.  I  have  jilted  several 
women  whom  I  have  promised  to  marry.  I 
don't  know  whether  I  believe  what  I  preach, 
and  I  know  I  have  stolen  the  very  sermon  over 
which  I  have  been  sniveling.  Have  they  found 
me  out  ?  "  says  he,  as  his  head  drops  down  on 
the  cushion. 

Then  your  writer,  poet,  historian,  novelist,  or 
what  not  ?  The  Beacon  says  that  "  Jones's 
work  is  one  of  the  first  order."  The  Lamp  de- 
clares that  "  Jones's  tragedy  surpasses  every 
work  since  the  days  of  Him  of  Avon."  The 
Comet  asserts  that  "  J.'s  '  Life  of  Goody  Two- 
shoes  '  is  a  KTTifia  is  ae\,  a  noble  and  enduring 
monument  to  the  fame  of  that  admirable  Eng- 
lishwoman," and  so  forth.  But  then  Jones 
knows  that  he  has  lent  the  critic  of  the  Beacon 
five  pounds  ;  that  his  publisher  has  a  half-share 
in  the  Lamp;  and  that  the  Comet  comes  re- 
peatedly to  dine  with  him.     It  is  all  very  well. 


154  THACKERAY. 

Jones  is  immortal  until  he  is  found  out ;  and 
then  down  comes  the  extinguisher,  and  the  im- 
mortal is  dead  and  buried.  The  idea  (dies 
irce  /)  of  discovery  must  haunt  many  a  man, 
and  make  him  uneasy,  as  the  trumpets  are  puf- 
fing in  his  triumph.  Brown,  who  has  a  higher 
place  than  he  deserves,  cowers  before  Smith, 
who  has  found  him  out.  What  is  the  chorus 
of  critics  shouting  "  Bravo  "  ?  —  a  public  clap- 
ping hands  and  flinging  garlands  ?  Brown 
knows  that  Smith  has  found  him  out.  Puff, 
trumpets  !  AVave,  banners!  Huzza,  boys,  for 
the  immortal  Brown  !  "  This  is  all  very  well," 
B,  thinks  (bowing  the  while,  smiling,  laying  his 
hand  to  his  heart);  "but  there  stands  Smith 
at  the  window:  he  has  measured  me;  and  some 
day  the  others  will  find  me  out  too."  It  is  a 
very  curious  sensation  to  sit  by  a  man  who  has 
found  you  out,  and  who,  as  you  know,  has  found 
you  out;  or,  vice  versa,  to  sit  with  a  man  whom 
you  have  found  out.  His  talent  ?  Bah  !  His 
virtue  ?  We  know  a  little  story  or  two  about 
his  virtue,  and  he  knows  we  know  it.  We  are 
thinking  over  friend  Robinson's  antecedents,  as 
we  grin,  bow,  and  talk;  and  we  are  both  hum- 
bugs together.  Robinson  a  good  fellow,  is  he  ? 
You  know  how  he  behaved  to  Hicks  ?  A  good- 
natured  man,  is  he  ?     Pray  do  you  remember 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  155 

that  little  story  of  Mrs.  Robinson's  black  eye  ? 
How  men  have  to  work,  to  talk,  to  smile,  to  go 
to  bed,  and  try  and  sleep,  with  this  dread  of 
being  found  out  on  their  consciences  !  Bar- 
dolph,  who  has  robbed  a  church,  and  Nyra, 
who  has  taken  a  purse,  go  to  their  usual  haunts, 
and  smoke  their  pipes  with  their  companions. 
Mr.  Detective  Bullseye  appears,  and  says,  "  Oh, 
Bardolph  !  I  want  you  about  that  there  pyx 
business  !  "  Mr.  Bardolph  knocks  the  ashes 
out  of  his  pipe,  puts  out  his  hands  to  the  little 
steel  cuffs,  and  walks  away  quite  meekly.  He 
is  found  out.  He  must  go.  "  Good-by,  Doll 
Tearsheet  !  Good-by,  Mrs.  Quickly,  ma'am  !  " 
The  other  gentlemen  and  ladies  de  la  societe 
look  on  and  exchange  mute  adieux  with  the 
departing  friends.  And  an  assured  time  will 
come  when  the  other  gentlemen  and  ladies  will 
be  found  out  too. 

What  a  wonderful  and  beautiful  provision  of 
nature  it  has  been  that,  for  the  most  part,  our 
womankind  are  not  endowed  with  the  faculty 
of  finding  us  out  !  They  don't  doubt,  and 
probe,  and  weigh,  and  take  your  measure.  Lay 
down  this  paper,  my  benevolent  friend  and 
reader,  go  into  your  drawing-room  now,  and 
utter  a  joke  ever  so  old,  and  I  wager  sixpence 
the  ladies  there  will  all  begin  to  laugh.     Go  to 


156  THACKERAY. 

Brown's  house,  and  tell  Mrs.  Brown  and  the 
young  ladies  what  you  thmk  of  him,  and  see 
what  a  welcome  you  will  get !  In  like  manner, 
let  him  come  to  your  house,  and  tell  your  good 
lady  his  candid  opinion  of  you,  and  fancy  how 
she  will  receive  him  !  Would  you  have  your 
wife  and  children  know  you  exactly  for  what 
you  are,  and  esteem  you  precisely  at  your 
worth?  If  so,  my  friend,  you  will  live  in  a 
dreary  house,  and  you  will  have  but  a  chilly 
fireside.  Do  you  suppose  the  people  round  it 
don't  see  your  homely  face  as  under  a  glamour, 
and,  as  it  were,  \vith  a  halo  of  love  round  it  ? 
You  don't  fancy  you  are  as  you  seem  to  them  ? 
No  such  thing,  my  man.  Put  away  that  mon- 
strous conceit,  and  be  thankful  that  they  have 
not  found  you  out. 


OGRES. 

I  DARE  say  the  reader  has  remarked  that 
the  upright  and  independent  vowel,  which 
stands  in  the  vowel-list  between  E  and  O,  has 
formed  the  subject  of  the  main  part  of  these 
essays.  How  does  that  vowel  feel  this  morn- 
ing? — fresh,  good-humored,  and  lively  ?  The 
Roundabout  lines,  which  fall  from  this  pen,  axe 


ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS.  157 

correspondingly  brisk  and  cheerful.  Has  any- 
thing, on  the  contrary,  disagreed  with  the 
vowel  ?  Has  its  rest  been  disturbed,  or  was 
yesterday's  dinner  too  good,  or  yesterday's  wine 
not  good  enough  ?  Under  such  circumstances, 
a  darkling,  misanthropic  tinge,  no  doubt,  is 
cast  upon  the  paper.  The  jokes,  if  attempted, 
are  elaborate  and  dreary.  The  bitter  temper 
breaks  out.  That  sneering  manner  is  adopted, 
which  you  know,  and  which  exhibits  itself  so 
especially  when  the  writer  is  speaking  about 
women.  A  moody  carelessness  comes  over 
him.  He  sees  no  good  in  anybody  or  thing  : 
and  treats  gentlemen,  ladies,  history,  and  things 
in  general,  with  a  like  gloomy  flippancy.  Agreed. 
When  the  vowel  in  question  is  in  that  mood,  if 
you  like  airy  gayety  and  tender  gushing  benev- 
olence, if  you  want  to  be  satisfied  with  your- 
self and  the  rest  of  your  fellow  -  beings,  I 
recommend  you,  my  dear  creature,  to  go  to 
some  other  shop  in  Cornhill,  or  turn  to  some 
other  article.  There  are  moods  in  the  mind  of 
the  vowel  of  which  we  are  speaking,  when  it  is 
ill-conditioned  and  captious.  Who  always 
keeps  good  health,  and  good  humor  ?  Do  not 
philosophers  grumble  ?  Are  not  sages  some- 
times out  of  temper  ?  and  do  not  angel-women 
go  off  in  tantrums  ?  To-day  my  mood  is  dark. 
I  scowl  as  I  dip  my  pen  in  the  inkstand. 


158  THACKERAY. 

Here  is  the  day  come  rouud  —  for  every- 
thing here  is  done  with  the  utmost  regularity  ; 
—  intellectual  labor,  sixteen  hours ;  meals, 
thirty-two  minutes  ;  exercise,  a  hundred  and 
forty-eight  minutes  ;  conversation  with  the 
family,  chiefly  literary,  and  about  the  house- 
keeping, one  hour  and  four  minutes ;  sleep, 
three  hours  and  fifteen  minutes  (at  the  end  of 
the  month,  when  the  Magazine  is  complete,  I 
own  I  take  eight  minutes  more)  ;  and  the  rest 
for  the  toilet  and  the  world.  Well,  I  say,  the 
Roundabout  Paper  Day  being  come,  and  the 
subject  long  since  settled  in  my  mind,  an  ex- 
cellent subject,  —  a  most  telling,  lively,  and 
popular  subject,  —  I  go  to  breakfast  determined 
to  finish  that  meal  in  9|  minutes,  as  usual,  and 
then  retire  to  my  desk  and  work,  when  —  oh, 
provoking !  —  here  in  the  paper  is  the  very 
subject  treated,  on  which  I  was  going  to  write  ! 
Yesterday  another  paper,  which  I  saw,  treated 
it  —  and  of  course,  as  I  need  not  tell  you, 
spoiled  it.  Last  Saturday,  another  paper  had 
an  article  on  the  subject  ;  perhaps  you  may 
guess  what  it  was  —  but  I  won't  tell  you. 
Only  this  is  true,  my  favorite  subject,  which 
was  about  to  make  the  best  paper  we  have  had 
for  a  long  time  :  my  bird,  my  game,  that  I  was 
going  to  shoot  and  serve  up  with  such  a  delicate 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  159 

sauce,  has  been  found  by  other  sportsmen  ;  and 
pop,  pop,  pop,  a  half  dozen  of  guns  have  banged 
at  it,  mangled  it,  and  brought  it  down. 

"  And  can't  you  take  some  other  text  ?  "  say 
you.  All  this  is  mighty  well.  But  if  you  have 
set  your  heart  on  a  certain  dish  for  dinner,  be 
it  cold  boiled  veal,  or  what  you  will,  and  they 
bring  you  turtle  and  venison,  don't  you  feel 
disappointed  ?  During  your  walk  you  have 
been  making  up  your  mind  that  that  cold  meat, 
with  moderation  and  a  pickle,  will  be  a  very 
sufficient  dinner  :  you  have  accustomed  your 
thoughts  to  it  ;  and  here,  in  place  of  it,  is  a 
turkey,  surrounded  by  coarse  sausages,  or  a 
reeking  pigeon-pie,  or  a  fulsome  roast-pig.  I 
have  known  many  a  good  and  kind  man  made 
furiously  angry  by  such  a  contretemps.  I  have 
known  him  lose  his  temper,  call  his  wife  and 
servants  names,  and  a  whole  household  made 
miserable.  If,  then,  as  is  notoriously  the  case, 
it  is  too  dangerous  to  balk  a  man  about  his 
dinner,  how  much  more  about  his  article  ?  I 
came  to  my  meal  with  an  ogre-like  appetite 
and  g;isto.  Fee,  faw,  fum  !  Wife,  where  is 
that  tender  little  Princekin  ?  Have  you  trussed 
him,  and  did  you  stuff  him  nicely,  and  have 
you  taken  care  to  baste  him  and  do  him,  not 
too   brown,   as   I    told   you  ?     Quick  !     I    am 


160  THACKERAY. 

hungry  !  I  begin  to  whet  my  knife,  to  roll  my 
eyes  about,  and  roar  and  clap  my  huge  chest 
like  a  gorilla  ;  and  then  my  poor  Ogriua  has  to 
tell  that  the  little  princes  have  all  run  away, 
whilst  she  was  in  the  kitchen,  making  the  paste 
to  bake  them  in !  I  pause  in  the  description. 
I  won't  condescend  to  report  the  bad  language, 
which  you  know  must  ensue,  when  an  ogre, 
whose  mind  is  ill-regulated,  and  whose  habits 
of  self-indulgence  are  notorious,  finds  himself 
disappointed  of  his  greedy  hopes.  What  treat- 
ment of  his  wife,  what  abuse  and  brutal  be- 
havior to  his  children,  who,  though  ogrillons, 
are  children  !  My  dears,  you  may  fancy,  and 
need  not  ask  my  delicate  pen  to  describe,  the 
language  and  behavior  of  a  vulgar,  coarse, 
greedy,  large  man  with  an  immense  mouth  and 
teeth,  which  are  too  frequently  employed  in  the 
gobbling  and  crunching  of  raw  man's  meat. 

And  in  this  circuitous  way,  you  see  I  have 
reached  my  present  subject,  which  is,  Ogres. 
You  fancy  they  are  dead  or  only  ficti- 
tious characters  —  mythical  representatives  of 
strength,  cruelty,  stupidity,  and  lust  for  blood  ? 
Though  they  had  seven-leagued  boots,  you  re- 
member all  sorts  of  little  whipping-snapping 
Tom  Thumbs  used  to  elude  and  outrun  them. 
They  were  so  stupid  that  they  gave  into  the 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  161 

most  shallow  ambuscades  and  artifices  :  witness 
that  well-known  ogre,  who,  because  Jack  cut 
open  the  hasty-pudding,  instantly  ripped  open 
his  own  stupid  waistcoat  and  interior.  They 
were  cruel,  brutal,  disgusting,  with  their  sharp- 
ened teeth,  immense  knives,  and  roaring  voices  ! 
but  they  always  ended  by  being  overcome  by 
little  Tom  Thumbkins,  or  some  other  smart 
little  champion. 

Yes  :  they  were  conquered  in  the  end  there 
is  no  doubt.  They  plunged  headlong  (and  ut- 
tering the  most  frightful  bad  language)  into 
some  pit  where  Jack  came  with  his  smart 
couteau  de  chasse  and  whipped  their  brutal  heads 
off.     They  would  be  going  to  devour  maidens, 

"  But  ever  when  it  seemed 

Their  need  was  at  the  sorest, 
A  knight,  in  armor  bright, 

Came  riding  through  the  forest." 

And  down,  after  a  combat,  would  go  the  brutal 
persecutor,  with  a  lance  through  his  midriff. 
Yes,  I  say,  this  is  very  true  and  well.  But 
you  remember  that  round  the  ogre's  cave  the 
ground  was  covered,  for  hundreds  and  hundreds 
of  yards,  with  the  hones  of  the  victims  whom  he 
had  lured  into  the  castle.  Many  knights  and 
maids  came  to  him  and  perished  under  his 
knife  and  teeth.     Were  dragons  the  same  as 


162  THACKERAY. 

ogres?  monsters  dwelling  in  caverns,  whence 
they  rushed,  attired  in  plate  armor,  wielding 
pikes  and  torches,  and  destroying  stray  pas- 
sengers who  passed  by  their  lair  ?  Monsters, 
brutes,  rapacious  tyrants,  ruffians  as  they  were, 
doubtless  they  ended  by  being  overcome.  But 
before  they  were  destroyed,  they  did  a  deal  of 
mischief.  The  bones  round  their  caves  were 
countless.  They  had  sent  many  brave  souls  to 
Hades,  before  their  own  fled,  howling  out  of 
their  rascal  carcasses,  to  the  same  place  of 
gloom. 

There  is  no  greater  mistake  than  to  suppose 
that  fairies,  champions,  distressed  damsels,  and, 
by  consequence,  ogres,  have  ceased  to  exist.  It 
may  not  be  ogreahle  to  them  (pardon  the  hor- 
rible pleasantry,  but  as  I  am  writing  in  the 
solitude  of  my  chamber,  I  am  grinding  my 
teeth  —  yelling,  roaring,  and  cursing  —  bran- 
dishing my  scissors  and  paper  cutter,  and,  as  it 
were,  have  become  an  ogre).  I  say  there  is  no 
greater  mistake  than  to  suppose  that  ogres  have 
ceased  to  exist.  We  all  knoio  ogres.  Their 
caverns  are  round  us,  and  about  us.  There  are 
the  castles  of  several  ogres  within  a  mile  of 
the  spot  where  I  write.  I  think  some  of  them 
suspect  I  am  an  ogre  myself.  I  am  not  :  but 
I  know  they  are.     I  visit  them.     I  don't  mean 


ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS.  163 

to  say  that  they  take  a  cold  roast  prince  out  of 
the  cupboard,  and  have  a  cannibal  feast  before 
me.  But  I  see  the  bones  lying  about  the  roads 
to  their  houses,  and  in  the  areas  and  gardens. 
Politeness,  of  course,  prevents  me  from  making 
any  remarks  ;  but  I  know  them  well  enough. 
One  of  the  ways  to  know  'em  is  to  watch  the 
scared  looks  of  the  ogres'  wives  and  children. 
They  lead  an  awful  life.  They  are  present  at 
dreadful  cruelties.  In  their  excesses  those 
ogres  wdll  stab  about,  and  kill  not  only  strangers 
who  happen  to  call  in  and  ask  a  night's  lodg- 
ings, but  they  will  outrage,  murder,  and  chop 
up  their  own  kin.  We  all  know  ogres,  I  say, 
and  have  been  in  their  dens  often.  It  is  not 
necessary  that  ogres  who  ask  you  to  dine  should 
offer  their  guests  the  peculiar  dish  which  they 
like.  They  cannot  always  get  a  Tom  Thumb 
family.  They  eat  mutton  and  beef  too  ;  and  I 
dare  say  even  go  out  to  tea,  and  invite  you  to 
drink  it.  But  I  tell  you  there  are  numbers  of 
them  going  about  in  the  world.  And  now  you 
have  my  word  for  it,  and  this  little  hint,  it  is 
quite  curious  what  an  interest  society  may  be 
made  to  have  for  you,  by  your  determining  to 
find  out  the  ogres  you  meet  there. 

What  does  the  man  mean?  says  Mrs.  Down- 
right, to  whom  a  joke  is  a  very  grave  thing.     I 


164  THACKERAY. 

mean,  madam,  that  in  the  company  assembled 
in  your  genteel  drawing-room,  who  bow  here 
and  there  and  smirk  in  white  neck-cloths,  you 
receive  men  who  elbow  through  life  successfully 
enough,  but  who  are  ogres  in  private  :  men 
wicked,  false,  rapacious,  flattering  ;  cruel  hec- 
tors at  home,  smiling  courtiers  abroad  ;  causing 
wives,  children,  servants,  parents,  to  tremble 
before  them,  and  smiling  and  bowing  as  they 
bid  strangers  welcome  into  their  castles.  I  say, 
there  are  men  who  have  crunched  the  bones  of 
victim  after  victim  ;  in  whose  closets  lie  skel- 
etons picked  frightfully  clean.  When  these 
ogres  come  out  into  the  world,  you  don't  sup- 
pose they  show  their  knives,  and  their  great 
teeth  ?  A  neat  simple  white  neck  -  cloth,  a 
merry  rather  obsequious  manner,  a  cadaver- 
ous look,  perhaps,  now  and  again,  and  a  rather 
dreadful  grin  :  but  I  know  ogres  very  consid- 
erably respected  :  and  when  you  hint  to  such 
and  such  a  man,  "My  dear  sir,  Mr.  Sharpus, 
whom  you  appear  to  like,  is,  I  assure  you,  a 
most  dreadful  cannibal,"  the  gentleman  cries, 
"  Oh,  psha,  nonsense  !  Dare  say  not  so  black 
as  he  is  painted.  Dare  say  not  worse  than  his 
neighbors."  We  condone  everything  in  this 
country — private  treason,  falsehood,  flattery, 
cruelty  at  home,  roguery,  and  double-dealing. 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  165 

What !  Do  you  mean  to  say  in  your  acquain- 
tance you  don't  know  ogres  guilty  of  countless 
crimes  of  fraud  and  force,  and  that  knowing 
them  you  don't  shake  hands  with  them  ;  dine 
with  them  at  your  table  ;  and  meet  them  at 
their  own  ?  Depend  upon  it,  in  the  time  when 
there  were  real  live  ogres  in  real  caverns  or 
castles,  gobbling  up  real  knights  and  virgins, 
when  they  went  into  the  world  —  the  neighbor- 
ing market-town,  let  us  say,  or  earl's  castle  — 
though  their  nature  and  reputation  were  pretty 
well  known,  their  notorious  foibles  were  never 
alluded  to.  You  would  say,  "  What,  Blunder- 
bore,  ray  boy  !  How  do  you  do  ?  How  well 
and  fresh  you  look  !  What 's  the  receipt  you 
have  for  keeping  so  young  and  rosy  ?  "  And 
your  wife  would  softly  ask  after  Mrs.  Blunder- 
bore  and  the  dear  children.  Or  it  would  be, 
"  My  dear  Humguffin  !  try  that  pork.  It  is 
home-bred,  home -fed,  and,  I  promise  you, 
tender.  Tell  me  if  you  think  it  is  as  good  as 
yours  ?  John,  a  glass  of  Burgundy  to  Colonel 
Humguffin  ! ' '  You  don't  suppose  there  would 
be  any  unpleasant  allusions  to  disagreeable 
home-reports  regarding  Humguffin's  manner 
of  furnishing  his  larder  ?  I  say  we  all  of  us 
know  ogres.  We  shake  hands  and  dine  with 
ogres.     And  if  inconvenient  moralists  tell  us 


166  THACKERAY. 

we  are  cowards  for  our  pains,  we  turn  round 
with  a  tu  quoque,  or  say  that  we  don't  meddle 
witli  other  folks'  affairs  ;  that  people  are  much 
less  black  than  they  are  painted,  and  so  on. 
What  !  Won't  half  the  country  go  to  Ogreham 
Castle  ?  Won't  some  of  the  clergy  say  grace 
at  dinner  ?  Won't  the  mothers  bring  their 
daughters  to  dance  with  the  young  Rawheads  ? 
And  if  Lady  Ogreham  happens  to  die  —  I  won't 
say  to  go  the  way  of  all  flesh,  that  is  too  re- 
volting —  I  say  if  Ogreham  is  a  widower,  do 
you  aver,  on  your  conscience  and  honor,  that 
mothers  will  not  be  found  to  offer  their  young 
girls  to  supply  the  lamented  lady's  place  ? 
How  stale  this  misanthropy  is  !  Something 
must  have  disagreed  with  this  cynic.  Yes,  my 
good  woman.  I  dare  say  you  would  like  to 
call  another  subject.  Yes,  my  fine  fellow  ;  ogre 
at  home,  supple  as  a  dancing-master  abroad, 
and  shaking  in  thy  pumps,  and  wearing  a  hor- 
rible grin  of  sham  gayety  to  conceal  thy  terror, 
lest  I  should  point  thee  out  :  —  thou  art  pros- 
perous and  honored,  art  thou  ?  I  say  thou 
hast  been  a  tyrant  and  a  robber.  Thou  hast 
plundered  the  poor.  Thou  hast  bullied  the 
weak.  Thou  hast  laid  violent  hands  on  the 
goods  of  the  innocent  and  confiding.  Thou 
hast  made  a  prey  of  the  meek  and  gentle  who 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  167 

asked  for  thy  protection.  Thou  hast  been  hard 
to  thy  kinsfolk,  and  cruel  to  thy  family.  Go, 
monster !  Ah,  when  shall  little  Jack  come 
and  drill  daylight  through  thy  wicked  cannibal 
carcass  ?  I  see  the  ogre  pass  on,  bowing  right 
and  left  to  the  company  ;  and  he  gives  a  dread- 
ful sidelong  glance  of  suspicion  as  he  is  talking 
to  my  lord  bishop  in  the  corner  there. 

Ogres  in  our  days  need  not  be  giants  at  all. 
In  former  times,  and  in  children's  books,  where 
it  is  necessary  to  paint  your  moral  in  such  large 
letters  that  there  can  be  no  mistake  about  it, 
ogres  are  made  with  that  enormous  mouth  and 
ralelier  which  you  know  of,  and  with  which  they 
can  swallow  down  a  baby,  almost  without  using 
that  great  knife  which  they  always  carry. 
They  are  too  cunning  nowadays.  They  go 
about  in  society,  slim,  small,  quietly  dressed, 
and  showing  no  especially  great  appetite.  In 
my  own  young  days  there  used  to  be  play  ogres 
—  men  who  would  devour  a  young  fellow  in 
one  sitting,  and  leave  him  without  a  bit  of  flesh 
on  his  bones.  They  were  quiet,  gentleman- 
like-looking people.  They  got  the  young  fellow 
into  their  cave.  Champagne,  pdte-de-foie-graSy 
and  numberless  good  things  were  handed  about  ; 
and  then,  having  eaten,  the  young  man  was  de- 
voured in  his  turn.     I  believe  these  card  and 


168  THACKERAY. 

dice  ogres  have  died  away  almost  as  entirely  as 
the  hasty-pudding  giants  whom  Tom  Thumb 
overcame.  Now,  there  are  ogres  in  City  courts 
who  lure  you  into  their  dens.  About  our 
Cornish  mines  I  am  told  there  are  many  most 
plausible  ogros,  who  tempt  you  into  their  cav- 
erns and  pick  your  bones  there.  In  a  certain 
newspaper  there  used  to  be  lately  a  whole  col- 
umn of  advertisements  from  ogres  who  would 
put  on  the  most  plausible,  nay,  piteous  appear- 
ance, in  order  to  inveigle  their  victims.  You 
would  read,  "  A  tradesman,  established  for 
seventy  years  in  the  City,  and  known,  and  much 
respected  by  Messrs.  N.  M.  Rothschild  and 
Baring  Brothers,  has  pressing  need  for  three 
pounds  until  next  Saturday.  He  can  give 
security  for  half  a  million,  and  forty  thousand 
pounds  will  be  given  for  the  use  of  the  loan," 
and  so  on  ;  or,  "  An  influential  body  of  capital- 
ists are  about  to  establish  a  company,  of  which 
the  business  will  be  enormous  and  the  profits 
proportionately  prodigious.  They  will  require 
a  SECRETARY,  of  good  address  and  appearance, 
at  a  salary  of  two  thousand  pounds  per  annum. 
He  need  not  be  able  to  write,  but  address  and 
manners  are  absolutely  necessary.  As  a  mark 
of  confidence  in  the  company,  he  will  have  to 
deposit,"  etc.  ;  or,  "A  young  widow  (of  pleas- 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  169 

iug'  manners  and  appearance)  who  has  a  pressing 
necessity  for  four  pounds  ten  for  three  weeks, 
offers  her  Erard's  grand  piano,  valued  at  three 
hundred  guineas  ;  a  diamond  cross  of  eight 
hundred  pounds  ;  and  board  and  lodging  in  her 
elegant  villa  near  Banbury  Cross,  with  the  best 
references  and  society,  in  return  for  the  loan." 
I  suspect  these  people  are  ogres.  There  are 
ogres  and  ogres.  Polyphemus  was  a  great, 
tall,  one-eyed,  notorious  ogre,  fetching  his  vic- 
tims out  of  a  hole,  and  gobbling  them  one  after 
another.  There  could  be  no  mistake  about 
him.  But  so  were  the  Sirens  ogres  —  pretty 
blue-eyed  things,  peeping  at  you  coaxingly  from 
out  of  the  water,  and  singing  their  melodious 
wheedles.  And  the  bones  round  their  caves 
were  more  numerous  than  the  ribs,  skulls,  and 
thigh-bones  round  the  cavern  of  hulking  Poly- 
pheme. 

To  the  castle-gates  of  some  of  these  monsters 
up  rides  the  dapper  champion  of  the  pen;  puffs 
boldly  upon  the  horn  which  hangs  by  the  chain; 
enters  the  hall  resolutely,  and  challenges  the 
big  tyrant  sulking  within.  We  defy  him  to 
combat,  the  enormous  roaring  ruffian  !  We 
gave  him  a  meeting  on  the  green  plain  before 
his  castle.  Green  ?  No  wonder  it  should  be 
green  :  it  is  manured  with  human  bones.    After 


170  THACKERAY. 

a  few  graceful  wheels  and  curvets,  we  take  our 
ground.  We  stoop  over  our  saddle.  'T  is  but 
to  kiss  the  locket  of  our  ladj -love's  hair.  And 
now  the  visor  is  up  :  the  lance  is  in  rest  (Gil- 
lott's  iron  is  the  point  for  me).  A  touch  of  the 
spur  in  the  gallant  sides  of  Pegasus,  and  we 
gallop  at  the  great  brute. 

"  Cut  off  his  ugly  head,  Flibbertygibbet,  my 
squire  !  "  And  who  are  these  who  pour  out  of 
the  castle  ?  the  imprisoned  maidens,  the  mal- 
treated widows,  the  poor  old  hoary  grandfathers, 
who  have  been  locked  up  in  the  dungeons  these 
scores  and  scores  of  years,  writhing  under  the 
tyranny  of  that  ruffian!  Ah,  ye  knights  of  the 
pen  !  May  honor  be  your  shield,  and  truth  tip 
your  lances  !  Be  gentle  to  all  gentle  people. 
Be  modest  to  women.  Be  tender  to  children. 
And  as  for  the  Ogre  Humbug,  out  sword,  and 
have  at  him. 

NIL  NISI  BONUM. 

Almost  the  last  words  which  Sir  Walter 
spoke  to  Lockhart,  his  biographer,  were,  "  Be  a 
good  man,  my  dear  !  "  and  with  the  last  flicker 
of  breath  on  his  dying  lips,  he  sighed  a  fare- 
well to  his  family,  and  passed  away  blessing 
them. 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  171 

Two  men,  famous,  admired,  beloved,  have 
just  left  us,  the  Goldsmith  and  the  Gibbon  of 
our  time.i  Ere  a  few  weeks  are  over,  many  a 
critic's  pen  will  be  at  work,  reviewing  their 
lives,  and  passing  judgment  on  their  works. 
This  is  no  review,  or  history,  or  criticism  :  only 
a  word  in  testimony  of  respect  and  regard  from 
a  man  of  letters,  who  owes  to  his  own  profes- 
sional labor  the  honor  of  becoming  acquainted 
with  these  two  eminent  literary  men.  One  was 
the  first  ambassador  whom  the  New  World  of 
Letters  sent  to  the  Old.  He  was  born  almost 
with  the  republic  ;  the  pater  patricB  had  laid  his 
hand  on  the  child's  head.  He  bore  Washing- 
ton's name  :  he  came  amongst  us  bringing  the 
kindest  sympathy,  the  most  artless,  smiling 
good-will.  His  new  country  (which  some  peo- 
ple here  might  be  disposed  to  regard  rather 
superciliously)  could  send  us,  as  he  showed  in 
his  own  person,  a  gentleman,  who,  though  him- 
self born  in  no  very  high  sphere,  was  most  fin- 
ished, polished,  easy,  witty,  quiet  ;  and  socially, 
the  equal  of  the  most  refined  Europeans.  If 
Irving's  welcome  in  England  was  a  kind  one, 
was  it  not  also  gratefully  remembered  ?  If 
he  ate  our  salt,  did  he  not  pay  us  with  a  tliank- 

1  Washington  Irving  died,  November  28,  1859 ;  Lord  Ma- 
caulay  died,  December  28,  1859. 


172  THACKERAY. 

fill  heart  ?  Who  can  calculate  the  amount  of 
friendliness  and  good  feeling  for  our  country 
which  this  writer's  generous  and  untiring  regard 
for  us  disseminated  in  his  own  ?  His  books 
are  read  by  millions  ^  of  his  countrymen,  whom 
he  has  taught  to  love  England,  and  why  to  love 
her.  It  would  have  been  easy  to  speak  other- 
wise than  he  did  :  to  inflame  national  rancors, 
which,  at  the  time  when  he  first  became  known 
as  a  public  writer,  war  had  just  renewed  :  to 
cry  down  the  old  civilization  at  the  expense  of 
the  new  :  to  point  out  our  faults,  arrogance, 
short-comings,  and  give  the  republic  to  infer 
how  much  she  was  the  parent  state's  superior. 
There  are  writers  enough  in  the  United  States, 
honest  and  otherwise,  who  preach  that  kind  of 
doctrine.  But  the  good  Irving,  the  peaceful, 
the  friendly,  had  no  place  for  bitterness  in  his 
heart,  and  no  scheme  but  kindness.  Received 
in  England  with  extraordinary  tenderness  and 
friendship  (Scott,  Southey,  Byron,  a  hundred 
others  have  borne  witness  to  their  liking  for 
him),  he  was  a  messenger  of  good -will  and 
peace  between  his  country  and  ours.  "  See, 
friends  !  "  he  seems  to  say,  "  these  English  are 
not  so  wicked,  rapacious,  callous,  proud,  as  you 

1  See  his  Life  in  the  most  remarkable  Dictionary  of  Au- 
thors, published  lately  at  Philadelphia,  by  Mr.  Allibone. 


ROUNDABOUT  TAPERS.  173 

have  been  taught  to  believe  them.  I  went 
amongst  them  a  humble  man  ;  won  my  way  by 
my  pen  ;  and,  when  known,  found  every  hand 
held  out  to  me  with  kindliness  and  welcome. 
Scott  is  a  great  man,  you  acknowledge.  Did 
not  Scott's  King  of  England  give  a  gold  medal 
to  him,  and  another  to  me,  your  countryman, 
and  a  stranger  ?  " 

Tradition  in  the  United  States  still  fondly  re- 
tains the  history  of  the  feasts  and  rejoicings 
which  awaited  Irving  on  his  return  to  his  native 
country  from  Europe.  He  had  a  national  wel- 
come; he  stammered  in  his  speeches,  hid  him- 
self in  confusion,  and  the  people  loved  him  all 
the  better.  He  had  worthily  represented  Amer- 
ica in  Europe.  In  that  young  community  a 
man  who  brings  home  with  him  abundant  Eu- 
ropean testimonials  is  still  treated  with  respect 
(I  have  found  American  writers,  of  world-wide 
reputation,  strangely  solicitous  about  the  opin- 
ions of  quite  obscure  British  critics,  and  elated 
or  depressed  by  their  judgments);  and  Irving 
went  home  medaled  by  the  King,  diplomatized 
by  the  University,  crowned  and  honored  and 
admired.  He  had  not  in  any  way  intrigued  for 
his  honors,  he  had  fairly  won  them  ;  and,  in 
Irving's  instance,  as  in  others,  the  old  country 
was  glad  and  eager  to  pay  them. 


174  THACKERAY. 

In  America  the  love  and  regard  for  Irving 
was  a  national  sentiment.  Party  wars  are  per- 
petually raging  there,  and  are  carried  on  by 
the  press  with  a  rancor  and  fierceness  against 
individuals  which  exceed  British,  almost  Irish, 
virulence.  It  seemed  to  me,  during  a  year's 
travel  in  the  country,  as  if  no  one  ever  aimed  a 
blow  at  Irving.  All  men  held  their  hand  from 
that  harmless,  friendly  peacemaker.  I  had  the 
good  fortune  to  see  him  at  New  York,  Phila- 
delphia, Baltimore,  and  Washington,^  and  re- 
marked how  in  every  place  he  was  honored  and 
welcome.  Every  large  city  has  its  "  Irving 
House."  The  country  takes  pride  in  the  fame 
of  its  men  of  letters.  The  gate  of  his  own 
charming  little  domain  on  the  beautiful  Hud- 
son River  was  forever  swinging  before  visitors 
who  came  to  liim.     He  shut  out  no  one.^     I  had 


1  At  Washington,  Mr.  Irving  came  to  a  lecture  given  by 
the  writer,  which  Mr.  Filmore  and  General  Pierce,  the  Pres- 
ident and  President  Elect,  were  also  kind  enough  to  attend 
together.  "  Two  Kings  of  Brentford  smelling  at  one  rose," 
says  Irving,  looking  up  with  his  good-humored  smile. 

-  Mr.  Irving  described  to  me,  with  that  humor  and  good- 
humor  which  he  always  kept,  how,  amongst  other  visitors,  a 
member  of  the  British  press  who  had  carried  his  distin- 
guished pen  to  America  (where  he  employed  it  in  vilifying 
his  ov^Ti  country)  came  to  Sunnyside,  introduced  himself  to 
Irving,  partook  of  liis  wine  and  luncheon,  and  in  two  days 
described  Mr.  Irving,  his  house,  his  nieces,  his  meal,  and  his 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  175 

seen  many  pictures  of  his  house,  and  read  de- 
scriptions of  it,  in  both  of  which  it  was  treated 
with  a  not  unusual  American  exaggeration.  It 
was  but  a  pretty  little  cabin  of  a  place  ;  the 
gentleman  of  the  press  who  took  notes  of  the 
place,  whilst  his  kind  old  host  was  sleeping, 
might  have  visited  the  whole  house  in  a  couple 
of  minutes. 

And  how  came  it  that  this  house  was  so 
small,  when  Mr.  Irving's  books  were  sold  by 
hundreds  of  thousands,  nay,  millions,  when  his 
profits  were  known  to  be  large,  and  the  habits 
of  life  of  the  good  old  bachelor  were  notoriously 
modest  and  simple  ?  He  had  loved  once  in  his 
life.  The  lady  he  loved  died  ;  and  he,  whom 
all  the  world  loved,  never  sought  to  replace 
her.  I  can't  say  how  much  the  thought  of  that 
fidelity  has  touched  me.  Does  not  the  very 
cheerfulness  of  his  after  life  add  to  the  pathos 
of  that  untold  story  ?  To  grieve  always  was 
not  in  his  nature  ;  or,  when  he  had  his  sorrow, 
to  bring  all  the  world  in  to  condole  with  him 
and  bemoan  it.  Deep  and  quiet  he  lays  the 
love  of  his  heart,  and  buries  it  ;  and  grass  and 

manner  of  dozing  afterwards,  in  a  New  York  paper.  On  an- 
other occasion,  Irving  said,  laughing,  "  Two  persons  came  to 
me,  and  one  held  me  in  conversation  whilst  the  other  mis- 
creant took  my  portrait !  " 


176  THACKERAY. 

flowers  grow  over  the  scarred  ground  in  due 
time. 

Irving  had  such  a  small  house  and  such  nar- 
row rooms,  because  there  was  a  great  number 
of  people  to  occupy  them.  He  could  only 
afford  to  keep  one  old  horse  (which,  lazy  and 
aged  as  it  was,  managed  once  or  twice  to  run 
away  with  that  careless  old  horseman).  He 
could  only  afford  to  give  plain  sherry  to  that 
amiable  British  paragraph-monger  from  New 
York,  who  saw  the  patriarch  asleep  over  his 
modest,  blameless  cup,  and  fetched  the  public 
into  his  private  chamber  to  look  at  him.  Irving 
could  only  live  very  modestly,  because  the  wife- 
less, childless  man  had  a  number  of  children  to 
whom  he  was  as  a  father.  He  had  as  many  as 
nine  nieces,  I  am  told  —  I  saw  two  of  these 
ladies  at  his  house  —  with  all  of  whom  the  dear 
old  man  had  shared  the  produce  of  his  labor 
and  genius. 

"jBe  a  good  man,  my  dear.^^  One  can't  but 
think  of  these  last  words  of  the  veteran  Chief 
of  Letters,  who  had  tasted  and  tested  the  value 
of  worldly  success,  admiration,  prosperity. 
Was  Irving  not  good,  and,  of  his  works,  was 
not  his  life  the  best  part  ?  In  his  family, 
gentle,  generous,  good-humored,  affectionate, 
self-denying :  in  society,  a  delightful  example 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  177 

of  complete  gentlemanhood  ;  quite  unspoiled 
by  prosperity  ;  never  obsequious  to  the  great 
(or,  worse  still,  to  the  base  and  mean,  as  some 
public  men  are  forced  to  be  in  his  and  other 
countries)  ;  eager  to  acknowledge  every  con- 
temporary's merit  ;  always  kind  and  affable  to 
the  young  members  of  his  calling  ;  in  his  pro- 
fessional bargains  and  mercantile  dealings  del- 
icately honest  and  grateful  ;  one  of  the  most 
charming  masters  of  our  lighter  language  ;  the 
constant  friend  to  us  and  our  nation  ;  to  men  of 
letters  doubly  dear,  not  for  his  wit  and  genius 
merely,  but  as  an  exemplar  of  goodness,  probity, 
and  pure  life  :  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  tes- 
timonial will  be  raised  to  him  in  his  own  coun- 
try, where  generous  and  enthusiastic  acknow- 
ledgment of  American  merit  is  never  wanting  ; 
but  Irving  was  in  our  service  as  well  as  theirs  ; 
and  as  they  have  placed  a  stone  at  Greenwich 
yonder  in  memory  of  that  gallant  young  Bellot, 
who  shared  the  perils  and  fate  of  some  of  our 
Arctic  seamen,  I  would  like  to  hear  of  some 
memorial  raised  by  English  writers  and  friends 
of  letters  in  affectionate  remembrance  of  the 
dear  and  good  Washington  Irving. 

As  for  the  other  writer,  whose  departure 
many  friends,  some  few  most  dearly-loved 
relatives,  and  multitudes  of  admiring  readers 


178  THACKERAY. 

deplore,  our  republic  has  already  decreed  his 
statue,  and  he  must  have  known  that  he  had 
earned  this  posthumous  honor.  He  is  not  a 
poet  and  man  of  letters  merely,  but  citizen, 
statesman,  a  great  British  worthy.  Almost 
from  the  first  moment  when  he  appears,  amongst 
boys,  amongst  college  students,  amongst  men, 
he  is  marked,  and  takes  rank  as  a  great  English- 
man. All  sorts  of  successes  are  easy  to  him  : 
as  a  lad  he  goes  down  into  the  arena  with  others, 
and  wdns  all  the  prizes  to  which  he  has  a  mind. 
A  place  in  the  senate  is  straightway  offered  to 
the  young  man.  He  takes  his  seat  there  ;  he 
speaks,  when  so  minded,  without  party  anger 
or  intrigue,  but  not  without  party  faith  and  a 
sort  of  heroic  enthusiasm  for  his  cause.  Still 
he  is  poet  and  philosopher  even  more  than 
orator.  That  he  may  have  leisure  and  means 
to  pursue  his  darling  studies,  he  absents  him- 
self for  a  while,  and  accepts  a  richly-remunera- 
tive post  in  the  East.  As  learned  a  man  may 
live  in  a  cottage  or  a  college  common-room  ; 
but  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  ample  means 
and  recognized  rank  were  Macaulay's  as  of 
right.  Years  ago  there  was  a  wretched  out- 
cry raised  because  ISir.  Macaulay  dated  a  let- 
ter from  Windsor  Castle,  where  he  was  staying. 
Immortal  gods  !     Was  this  man  not  a  fit  guest 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  179 

for  any  palace  in  the  world,  or  a  fit  companion 
for  any  man  or  woman  in  it  ?  I  dare  say,  after 
Austerlitz,  the  old  K.  K.  court  officials  and 
footmen  sneered  at  Napoleon  for  dating  from 
Schonbrunn.  But  that  miserable  "  Windsor 
Castle  "  outcry  is  an  echo  out  of  fast-retreating 
old-world  remembrances.  The  place  of  such  a 
natural  chief  was  amongst  the  first  of  the  laud  ; 
and  that  country  is  best,  according  to  our  British 
notion  at  least,  where  the  man  of  eminence  has 
the  best  chance  of  investing  his  genius  and  in- 
tellect. 

If  a  company  of  giants  were  got  together, 
very  likely  one  or  two  of  the  mere  six-feet-six 
people  might  be  angry  at  the  incontestable  su- 
periority of  the  very  tallest  of  the  party  ;  and 
so  I  ^ave  heard  some  London  wits,  rather  pee- 
vish at  Macaulay's  superiority,  complain  that 
he  occupied  too  much  of  the  talk,  and  so  forth. 
Now  that  wonderful  tongue  is  to  speak  no  more, 
will  not  many  a  man  grieve  that  he  no  longer 
has  the  chance  to  listen  ?  To  remember  the 
talk  is  to  wonder  :  to  think  not  only  of  the 
treasures  he  had  in  his  memory,  but  of  the 
trifles  he  had  stored  there,  and  could  produce 
with  equal  readiness.  Almost  on  the  last  day 
I  had  the  fortune  to  see  him,  a  conversation 
happened  suddenly  to  spring  up  about  senior 


180  THACKERAY. 

wranglers,  and  what  they  had  done  in  after 
life.  To  the  almost  terror  of  the  persons  pres- 
ent, Macaulay  began  with  the  senior  wrangler 
of  1801-2-3-4,  and  so  on,  giving  the  name  of 
each,  and  relating  his  subsequent  career  and 
rise.  Every  man  who  has  known  him  has  his 
story  regarding  that  astonishing  memory.  It 
may  be  that  he  was  not  ill  pleased  that  you 
should  recognize  it  ;  but  to  those  prodigious 
intellectual  feats,  which  were  so  easy  to  him, 
who  would  grudge  his  tribute  of  homage  ?  His 
talk  was,  in  a  word,  admirable,  and  we  admired 
it. 

Of  the  notices  which  have  appeared  regarding 
Lord  Macaulay,  up  to  the  day  when  the  present 
lines  are  written  (the  9th  of  January),  the 
reader  should  not  deny  himself  the  pleasiire  of 
looking  especially  at  two.  It  is  a  good  sign  of 
the  times  when  such  articles  as  these  (I  mean 
the  articles  in  The  Times  and  Saturday  Review) 
appear  in  our  public  prints  about  our  public 
men.  They  educate  us,  as  it  were,  to  admire 
rightly.  An  uniustructed  person  in  a  museum 
or  at  a  concert  may  pass  by  without  recognizing 
a  picture  or  a  passage  of  music,  which  the  con- 
noisseur by  his  side  may  show  him  is  a  master- 
piece of  harmony,  or  a  wonder  of  artistic  skill. 
After  reading  these  papers  you  like  and  respect 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  181 

more  the  person  you  have  admired  so  much 
already.  And  so  with  regard  to  Maeaulay's 
style  there  may  be  faults  of  course  —  what 
critic  can't  point  them  out  ?  But  for  the  nonce 
we  are  not  talking  about  faults  :  we  want  to 
say  nil  nisi  bonum.  Well  —  take  at  hazard  any 
three  pages  of  the  "  Essays  "  or  '•  History  ;  "  — 
and,  glimmering  below  the  stream  of  tLe  nar- 
rative, as  it  were,  you,  an  average  reader,  see 
one,  two,  three,  a  half-score  of  allusions  to  other 
historic  facts,  characters,  literature,  poetry, 
with  which  you  are  acquainted.  Why  is  this 
epithet  used  ?  Whence  is  that  simile  drawn  ? 
How  does  he  manage,  in  two  or  three  words,  to 
paint  an  individual,  or  to  indicate  a  landscape  ? 
Your  neighbor,  who  has  his  reading,  and  his 
little  stock  of  literature  stowed  away  in  his 
mind,  shall  detect  more  points,  allusions,  happy 
touches,  indicating  not  only  the  prodigious 
memory  and  vast  learning  of  this  master,  but 
the  wonderful  industry,  the  honest,  humble 
previous  toil  of  this  great  scholar.  He  reads 
twenty  books  to  write  a  sentence  ;  he  travels  a 
hundred  miles  to  make  a  line  of  description. 

Many  Londoners  —  not  all  —  have  seen  the 
British  Museum  Library.  I  speak  a  cceur  ouvert 
and  pray  the  kindly  reader  to  bear  with  me.  I 
have  seen  all  sorts  of  domes  of  Peters  and 


IS  2  THACKERAY. 

Pauls,  Sophia,  Pantheon,  —  what  not  ?  —  and 
have  been  struck  by  none  of  them  so  much  as 
by  that  catholic  dome  in  Bloomsbury,  under 
which  our  million  volumes  are  housed.  What 
peace,  what  love,  what  truth,  what  beauty,  what 
happiness  for  all,  what  generous  kindness  for 
you  and  me,  are  here  spread  out  !  It  seems  to 
me  one  cannot  sit  down  in  that  place  without  a 
heart  full  of  grateful  reverence.  I  own  to  have 
said  my  grace  at  the  table,  and  to  have  thanked 
Heaven  for  this  my  English  birthright,  freely  to 
partake  of  these  bountiful  books,  and  to  speak 
the  truth  I  find  there.  Under  the  dome  which 
held  Macaulay's  brain,  and  from  which  his 
solemn  eyes  looked  out  on  the  world  but  a 
fortnight  since,  what  a  vast,  brilliant,  and 
wonderful  store  of  learning  was  ranged  !  what 
strange  lore  would  he  not  fetch  for  you  at  your 
bidding  !  A  volume  of  law,  or  history,  a  book 
of  poetry  familiar  or  forgotten  (except  by  him- 
self who  forgot  nothing),  a  novel  ever  so  old, 
and  he  had  it  at  hand.  I  spoke  to  him  once 
about  " Clarissa."  "  Not  read  '  Clarissa  ! '"  he 
cried  out.  "If  you  have  once  thoroughly  en- 
tered on  '  Clarissa '  and  are  infected  by  it,  you 
can't  leave  it.  When  I  was  in  India  I  passed 
one  hot  season  at  the  hills,  and  there  were  the 
Governor-General,  and  the  Secretary  of  Gov- 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  183 

ernment,  and  the  Commander-in-Chief,  and 
their  wives.  I  had  '  Clarissa '  with  me  :  and,  as 
soon  as  they  began  to  read,  the  whole  station 
was  in  a  passion  of  excitement  about  Miss  Har- 
lowe  and  her  misfortunes,  and  her  scoundrelly 
Lovelace  !  The  Governor's  wife  seized  the 
book,  and  the  Secretary  waited  for  it,  and  the 
Chief  Justice  could  not  read  it  for  tears  !  "  He 
acted  the  whole  scene  :  he  paced  up  and  down 
the  "  Athenseum  "  library  :  I  dare  say  he  could 
have  spoken  pages  of  the  book  —  of  that  book, 
and  of  what  countless  piles  of  others  ! 

In  this  little  paper  let  us  keep  to  the  text  of 
nil  nisi  honum.  One  paper  I  have  read  regard- 
ing Lord  Macaulay  says  "  he  had  no  heart." 
Why,  a  man's  books  may  not  always  speak  the 
truth,  but  they  speak  his  mind  in  spite  of  him- 
self :  and  it  seems  to  me  this  man's  heart  is 
beating  through  every  page  he  penned.  He  is 
always  in  a  storm  of  revolt  and  indignation 
against  wrong,  craft,  tyranny.  How  he  cheers 
heroic  resistance  ;  how  he  backs  and  applauds 
freedom  struggling  for  its  own  ;  how  he  hates 
scoundrels,  ever  so  victorious  and  successful  ; 
how  he  recognizes  genius,  though  selfish  villains 
possess  it !  The  critic  who  says  Macaulay  had 
no  heart  might  say  that  Johnson  had  none  : 
and  two  men  more  generous,  and  more  loving, 


184  THACKERAT. 

and  more  hating,  and  more  partial,  and  more 
noble,  do  not  live  in  our  history.  Those  who 
knew  Lord  Macaulay  knew  how  admirably  ten- 
der and  generous,^  and  affectionate  he  was.  It 
was  not  his  business  to  bring  his  family  before 
the  theatre  foot-lights,  and  call  for  bouquets 
from  the  gallery  as  he  wept  over  them. 

If  any  young  man  of  letters  reads  this  little 
sermon  —  and  to  him,  indeed,  it  is  addressed  — 
I  would  say  to  him,  "Bear  Scott's  words  in 
your  mind,  and  '  he  good,  my  dear.''  "  Here  are 
two  literary  men  gone  to  their  account,  and ,  laus 
Deo,  as  far  as  we  know,  it  is  fair,  and  open,  and 
clean.  Here  is  no  need  of  apologies  for  short- 
comings, or  explanations  of  vices  which  would 
have  been  virtues  but  for  unavoidable,  etc. 
Here  are  two  examples  of  men  most  differently 
gifted  :  each  pursuing  his  calling  ;  each  speak- 
ing his  truth  as  God  bade  him  ;  each  honest  in 
his  life  ;  just  and  irreproachable  in  his  dealings  ; 
dear  to  his  friends  ;  honored  by  his  country  ; 
beloved  at  his  fireside.  It  has  been  the  fortu- 
nate lot  of  both  to  give  incalculable  happiness 
and  delight  to  the  world,  which  thanks  them  in 
return  with  an  immense  kindliness,  respect,  af- 

1  Since  the  above  was  written,  I  have  been  informed  that 
it  has  been  found,  on  examining  Lord  Macaulay's  papers, 
that  he  was  in  the  habit  of  giving  away  more  than  a  fourth 
part  of  his  annual  income. 


ROUNDABOUT    PAPERS.  185 

fection.  It  may  not  be  our  chance,  brother 
scribe,  to  be  endowed  with  such  merit,  or  re- 
warded with  such  fame.  But  the  rewards  of 
these  men  are  rewards  paid  to  our  service.  We 
may  not  win  the  hdtoyi  or  epaulets  ;  but  God 
give  us  strength  to  guard  the  honor  of  the  flag  ! 


DE  FINIBUS. 

When  Swift  was  in  love  with  Stella,  and  de- 
spatching her  a  letter  from  London  thrice  a 
month  by  the  Irish  packet,  you  remember  how 
he  would  begin  letter  No.  xxiii.,  we  will  say, 
on  the  very  day  when  xxii.  had  been  sent  away, 
stealing  out  of  the  coffee-house  or  the  assembly 
so  as  to  be  able  to  prattle  with  his  dear  ;  "  never 
letting  go  her  kind  hand,  as  it  were,"  as  some 
commentator  or  other  has  said  in  speaking  of 
the  Dean  and  his  amour.  When  Mr.  Johnson, 
w^alking  to  Dodsley's  and  touching  the  posts  in 
Pall  Mall  as  he  walked,  forgot  to  pat  the  head 
of  one  of  them,  he  went  back  and  imposed  his 
hands  on  it,  —  impelled  I  know  not  by  what 
superstition.  I  have  this  I  hope  not  dangerous 
mania  too.  As  soon  as  a  piece  of  work  is  out 
of  hand,  and  before  going  to  sleep,  I  like  to 
begin  another  :  it  may  be  to  write  only  half  a 


186  THACKERAY. 

dozen  lines  !  but  that  is  something  towards 
Number  the  Next.  The  printer's  boy  has  not 
yet  reached  Green  Arbor  Court  with  the  copy. 
Those  people  who  were  alive  half  an  hour  since, 
Pendennis,  Clive  Newcome,  and  (what  do  you 
call  him  ?  what  was  the  name  of  the  last  hero  ? 
I  remember  now  !)  Philip  Firmin,  have  hardly 
drunk  their  glass  of  wine,  and  the  mammas 
have  only  this  minute  got  the  children's  cloaks 
on,  and  have  been  bowed  out  of  my  premises 
—  and  here  I  come  back  to  the  study  again  : 
tamen  usque  recurro.  How  lonely  it  looks  now 
all  these  people  are  gone  !  My  dear  good 
friends,  some  folks  are  utterly  tired  of  you,  and 
say,  "  What  a  poverty  of  friends  the  man  has  ! 
He  is  always  asking  us  to  meet  those  Penden- 
nises,  Newcomes,  and  so  forth.  Why  does  he 
not  introduce  us  to  some  new  characters,? 
Why  is  he  not  thrilling  like  Twostars,  learned 
and  profound  like  Threestars,  exquisitely  hu- 
morous and  human  like  Fourstars  ?  Why, 
finally,  is  he  not  somebody  else  ?  "  My  good 
people,  it  is  not  only  impossible  to  please  you 
all,  but  it  is  absurd  to  try  it.  The  dish  which 
one  man  devours,  another  dislikes.  Is  the  din- 
ner of  to-day  not  to  your  taste  ?  Let  us  hope 
to-morrow's  entertainment  will  be  more  agree- 
able. ...  I  resume  my  original  subject.    What 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  187 

an  odd,  pleasant,  humorous,  melancholy  feeling 
it  is  to  sit  in  the  study,  alone  and  quiet,  now  all 
these  people  are  gone  who  have  been  boarding 
and  lodging  with  me  for  twenty  months  !  They 
have  interrupted  my  rest  :  they  have  plagued 
me  at  all  sorts  of  minutes  :  they  have  thrust 
themselves  upon  me  when  I  was  ill,  or  wished 
to  be  idle,  and  1  have  growled  out  a  "  Be 
hanged  to  you,  can't  you  leave  me  alone  now?" 
Once  or  twice  they  have  prevented  my  going 
out  to  dinner.  Many  and  many  a  time  they 
have  'prevented  my  coming  home,  because  I 
knew  they  were  there  waiting  in  the  study,  and 
a  plague  take  them  !  and  I  have  left  home  and 
family,  and  gone  to  dine  at  the  Club,  and  told 
nobody  where  I  went.  They  have  bored  me, 
those  people.  They  have  plagued  me  at  all 
sorts  of  uncomfortable  hours.  They  have  made 
such  a  disturbance  in  my  mind  and  house,  that 
sometimes  I  have  hardly  known  what  was  going 
on  in  my  family,  and  scarcely  have  heard  what 
my  neighbor  said  to  me.  They  are  gone  at 
last ;  and  you  would  expect  me  to  be  at  ease  ? 
Far  from  it.  I  should  almost  be  glad  if  Wool- 
comb  would  walk  in  and  talk  to  me  ;  or  Twys- 
den  reappear,  take  his  place  in  that  chair  oppo- 
site me,  and  begin  one  of  his  tremendous  stories. 
Madmen,  you  know,  see  visions,  hold  conver- 


188  THACKERAY. 

sations  with,  even  draw  the  likeness  of  people 
invisible  to  you  and  me.  Is  this  making  of 
people  out  of  fancy  madness  ?  and  are  novel- 
writers  at  all  entitled  to  strait-waistcoats  ?  I 
often  forget  people's  names  in  life  ;  and  in  my 
own  stories  contritely  own  that  I  make  dread- 
ful blunders  regarding  them  ;  but  I  declare, 
my  dear  sir,  with  respect  to  the  personages  in- 
troduced into  your  humble  servant's  fables,  I 
know  the  people  utterly  —  I  know  the  sound  of 
their  voices,  A  gentleman  came  in  to  see  me 
the  other  day,  who  was  so  like  the  picture  of 
Philip  Firm  in  in  Mr.  Walker's  charming  draw- 
ings in  the  Cornhill  Magazine  that  he  was 
quite  a  curiosity  to  me.  The  same  eyes,  beard^ 
shoulders,  just  as  you  have  seen  them  from 
month  to  month.  Well,  he  is  not  like  the 
Philip  Firmin  in  my  mind.  Asleep,  asleep  in 
the  grave,  lies  the  bold,  the  generous,  the  reck- 
less, the  tender-hearted  creature  whom  I  have 
made  to  pass  through  those  adventures  which 
have  just  been  brought  to  an  end.  It  is  years 
since  I  heard  the  laughter  ringing,  or  saw  the 
bright  blue  eyes.  When  I  knew  him  both  were 
young.  I  become  young  as  I  think  of  him. 
And  this  morning  he  was  alive  again  in  this 
room,  ready  to  laugh,  to  fight,  to  weep.  As  I 
write,  do  you  know,  it  is  the  gray  of  evening; 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  189 

the  house  is  quiet  ;  everybody  is  out  ;  the  room 
is  getting  a  little  dark,  and  I  look  rather  wist- 
fully up  from  the  paper  with  perhaps  ever  so 
much  little  fancy  that  HE  MAY  COME  IN. 
—  No  ?  No  movement.  No  gray  shade,  grow- 
ing more  palpable,  out  of  which  at  last  look  the 
well-known  eyes.  No,  the  printer  came  and 
took  him  away  with  the  last  page  of  the  proofs. 
And  with  the  printer's  boy  did  the  whole  cor- 
tege of  ghosts  flit  away,  invisible  ?  Ha  !  stay  ! 
what  is  this  ?  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  ! 
The  door  opens,  and  a  dark  form  —  enters,  bear- 
ing a  black  —  a  black  suit  of  clothes.  It  is 
John.     He  says  it  is  time  to  dress  for  dinner. 

Every  man  who  has  had  his  German  tutor, 
and  has  been  coached  through  the  famous 
"  Faust "  of  Goethe  (thou  wert  my  instructor, 
good  old  Weissenborn,  and  these  eyes  beheld 
the  great  master  himself  in  dear  little  Weimar 
town  !)  has  read  those  charming  verses  which 
are  prefixed  to  the  drama,  in  which  the  poet 
reverts  to  the  time  when  his  work  was  first 
composed,  and  recalls  the  friends  now  departed, 
who  once  listened  to  his  song.  The  dear 
shadows  rise  up  around  him,  he  says  ;  he  lives 
in  the  past  again.  It  is  to-day  which  appears 
vague  and  visionary.     We  humbler  writers  can- 


190  THACKERAY. 

not  create  Fausts,  or  raise  up  monumental 
works  that  shall  endure  for  all  ages  ;  but  our 
books  are  diaries,  in  which  our  own  feelings 
must  of  necessity  be  set  down.  As  we  look  to 
the  page  written  last  month,  or  ten  years  ago, 
we  remember  the  day  and  its  events  ;  the  child 
ill,  mayhap,  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  the 
doubts  and  fears  which  racked  the  brain  as  it 
still  pursued  its  work ;  the  dear  old  friend  who 
read  the  commencement  of  the  tale,  and  whose 
gentle  hand  shall  be  laid  m  ours  no  more.  I 
own  for  my  part  that,  in  reading  pages  which 
this  hand  penned  formerly,  I  often  lose  sight  of 
the  text  under  my  eyes.  It  is  not  the  words  I 
see,  but  that  past  day ;  that  by-gone  page  of 
life's  history  ;  that  tragedy,  comedy  it  may  be, 
which  our  little  home  company  was  enacting  ; 
that  merry  -  making  which  we  shared  ;  that 
funeral  which  we  followed  ;  that  bitter,  bitter 
grief  which  we  buried. 

And,  such  being  the  state  of  my  mind,  I  pray 
gentle  readers  to  deal  kindly  with  their  humble 
servant's  manifold  shortcomings,  blunders,  and 
slips  of  memory.  As  sure  as  I  read  a  page  of 
my  own  composition,  I  find  a  fault  or  two,  half 
a  dozen.  Jones  is  called  Brown.  Brown,  who 
is  dead,  is  brought  to  life.  Aghast,  and  months 
after  the  number  was  printed,  I  saw  that  I  had 


KOUND ABOUT  PAPERS.     191 

called  Philip  Firmiu,  Clive  Newcome.  Now 
Clive  Newcome  is  the  hero  of  another  story  by 
the  reader's  most  obedient  writer.  The  two 
men  are  as  different,  in  my  mind's  eye,  as — as 
Lord  Palmerston  and  Mr.  Disraeli,  let  us  say. 
But  there  is  that  blunder  at  page  990,  line  76, 
volume  84:  of  the  Comhill  Magazine,  and  it  is 
past  mending  ;  and  I  wish  in  my  life  I  had 
made  no  worse  blunders  or  errors  than  that 
which  is  hereby  acknowledged. 

Another  Finis  written.  Another  mile-stone 
passed  on  this  journey  from  birth  to  the  next 
world  !  Sure  it  is  a  subject  for  solemn  cogita- 
tion. Shall  we  continue  this  story-telling  busi- 
ness and  be  voluble  to  the  end  of  our  age  ? 
Will  it  not  be  presently  time,  O  prattler,  to 
hold  your  tongue,  and  let  younger  people 
speak  ?  I  have  a  friend,  a  painter,  who,  like 
other  persons  who  shall  be  nameless,  is  growing 
old.  He  has  never  painted  with  such  laborious 
finish  as  his  works  now  show.  This  master  is 
still  the  most  humble  and  diligent  of  scholars. 
Of  Art,  his  mistress,  he  is  always  an  eager, 
reverent  pupil.  In  his  calling,  in  yours,  in 
mine,  industry  and  humility  w411  help  and  com- 
fort us.  A  word  with  you.  In  a  pretty  large 
experience  I  have  not  found  the  men  who  write 
books  superior  in  wit  or  learning  to  those  who 


192  THACKERAY. 

don't  write  at  all.  In  regard  of  mere  informa- 
tion, non-writers  must  often  be  superior  to 
writers.  You  don't  expect  a  lawyer  in  full 
practice  to  be  conversant  with  all  kinds  of  lit- 
erature ;  he  is  too  busy  with  his  law  ;  and  so  a 
writer  is  commonly  too  busy  with  his  own  books 
to  be  able  to  bestow  attention  on  the  works  of 
other  people.  After  a  day's  work  (in  which  I 
have  been  depicting,  let  us  say,  the  agonies  of 
Louisa  on  parting  with  the  Captain,  or  the 
atrocious  behavior  of  the  wicked  Marquis  to 
Lady  Emily)  1  march  to  the  Club,  proposing  to 
improve  my  mind  and  keep  myself  "  posted 
up,"  as  the  Americans  phrase  it,  with  the  liter- 
ature of  the  day.  And  what  happens  ?  Given 
a  walk  after  luncheon,  a  pleasing  book,  and  a 
most  comfortable  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  and 
you  know  the  rest.  A  doze  ensues.  Pleasing 
book  drops  suddenly,  is  picked  up  once  with  an 
air  of  some  confusion,  is  laid  presently  softly 
in  lap  :  head  falls  on  comfortable  arm-chair 
cushion  :  eyes  close  :  soft  nasal  music  is  heard. 
Am  I  telling  Club  secrets  ?  Of  afternoons, 
after  lunch,  I  say,  scores  of  sensible  fogies  have 
a  doze.  Perhaps  I  have  fallen  asleep  over 
that  very  book  to  which  "Finis"  has  just  been 
written.  "  And  if  the  writer  sleeps,  what  hap- 
pens to  the  readers  ?  "  says  Jones,  coming  down 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  193 

upon  me  with  his  lightning  wit.  What  ?  You 
did  sleep  over  it  ?  And  a  very  good  thing  too. 
These  eyes  have  more  than  once  seen  a  friend 
dozing  over  pages  which  this  hand  has  written. 
There  is  a  vignette  somewhere  in  one  of  my 
books  of  a  friend  so  caught  napping  with  "  Pen- 
dennis,"  or  the  ''Newcomes,"  in  his  lap  ;  and 
if  a  writer  can  give  you  a  sweet  soothing,  harm- 
less sleep,  has  he  not  done  you  a  kindness  ?  So 
is  the  author  who  excites  and  interests  you 
worthy  of  your  thanks  and  benedictions.  I  am 
troubled  with  fever  and  ague,  that  seizes  me 
at  odd  intervals  and  prostrates  me  for  a  day. 
There  is  cold  fit,  for  which,  I  am  thankf al  to 
say,  hot  brandy-and-water  is  prescribed,  and 
this  induces  hot  fit,  and  so  on.  In  one  or  two 
of  these  fits  I  have  read  novels  with  the  most 
fearful  contentment  of  mind.  Once,  on  the 
Mississippi,  it  was  my  dearly  beloved  "  Jacob 
Faithful  :  "  once  at  Frankfort  O.  M.,  the  de- 
lightful "  Vingt  Ans  Apres "  of  Monsieur 
Dumas  :  once  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  the  thrill- 
ing "  Woman  in  White  :  "  and  these  books  gave 
me  amusement  from  morning  till  sunset.  I 
remember  those  ague  fits  with  a  great  deal  of 
pleasure  and  gratitude.  Think  of  a  whole  day 
in  bed,  and  a  good  novel  for  a  companion  !  No 
cares  :  no  remorse  about  idleness  :  no  visitors  ; 


194  THACKERAY. 

and  the  Woman  in  White  or  the  Chevalier 
d'Artagnan  to  tell  me  stories  from  dawn  to 
night  !  "  Please,  ma'am,  my  master's  compli- 
ments, and  can  he  have  the  third  volume  ? " 
(This  message  was  sent  to  an  astonished  friend 
and  neighbor  who  lent  me,  volume  by  volume, 
the  W.  in  W.)  How  do  you  like  your  novels  ? 
I  like  mine  strong,  "  hot  with,"  and  no  mistake  : 
no  love-making  :  no  observations  about  society  : 
little  dialogue,  except  where  the  characters  are 
bullying  each  other  :  plenty  of  fighting  :  and  a 
villain  in  the  cupboard,  who  is  to  sufPer  tor- 
tures just  before  Finis.  I  don't  like  your  mel- 
ancholy Finis.  I  never  read  the  history  of  a 
consumptive  heroine  twice.  If  I  might  give  a 
short  hint  to  an  impartial  writer  (as  the  Exam- 
iner used  to  say  in  old  days),  it  would  be  to  act, 
not  d  la  mode  le  pays  de  Pole  (I  think  that  was 
the  phraseology),  but  always  to  give  quarter. 
In  the  story  of  Philip,  just  come  to  an  end,  I 
have  the  permission  of  the  author  to  state  that 
he  was  going  to  drown  the  two  villains  of  the 

piece  —  a  certain  Doctor  F and  a  certain 

Mr.  T.  H on  board  the   "President,"  or 

some  other  tragic  ship  —  but  you  see  I  relented. 
I  pictured  to  myself  Firmin's  ghastly  face  amid 
the  crowd  of  shuddering  people  on  that  reeling 
deck  in  the  lonely  ocean,  and  thought,  "  Thou 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  195 

ghastly  lying  wretch,  thou  shalt  not  be  drowned  : 
thou  shalt  have  a  fever  only  ;  a  knowledge  of 
thy  danger  ;  and  a  chance  —  ever  so  small  a 
chance  —  of  repentance."  I  wonder  whether 
he  did  repent  when  he  found  himself  in  the 
yellow-fever,  in  Virginia  ?  The  probability  is, 
he  fancied  that  his  son  had  injured  him  very 
much,  and  forgave  him  on  his  death-bed.  Do 
you  imagine  there  is  a  great  deal  of  genuine 
right-down  remorse  in  the  world  ?  Don't  peo- 
ple rather  find  excuses  which  make  their  minds 
easy  ;  endeavor  to  prove  to  themselves  that 
they  have  been  lamentably  belied  and  misun- 
derstood ;  and  try  and  forgive  the  persecutors 
who  tvill  present  that  bill  when  it  is  due  ;  and 
not  bear  malice  against  the  cruel  ruffian  who 
takes  them  to  the  police-office  for  stealing  the 
spoons  ?  Years  ago  I  had  a  quarrel  with  a 
certain  well-known  person  (I  believed  a  state- 
ment regarding  him  which  his  friends  imparted 
to  me,  and  which  turned  out  to  be  quite  incor- 
rect). To  his  dying  day  that  quarrel  was  never 
quite  made  up.  I  said  to  his  brother,  "  Why  is 
your  brother's  soul  still  dark  against  me  ?  It 
is  I  who  ought  to  be  angry  and  unforgiving  : 
for  I  was  in  the  wrong."  In  the  region  which 
they  now  inhabit  (for  Finis  has  been  set  to  the 
volumes  of  the  lives  of  both  here  below)  if  they 


196  THACKERAY. 

take  any  cognizance  of  our  squabbles,  and  tittle- 
tattles,  and  gossips  on  earth  here,  I  hope  they 
admit  that  my  little  error  was  not  of  a  nature 
unpardonable.  If  you  have  never  committed 
a  worse,  my  good  sir,  surely  the  score  against 
you  will  not  be  heavy.  Ha,  dilectissimi  fratres  ! 
It  is  in  regard  of  sins  not  found  out  that  we 
may  say  or  sing  (in  an  undertone,  in  a  most 
penitent  and  lugubrious  minor  key)  Miserere 
nobis  miseris  peccatoribus. 

Among  the  sins  of  commission  which  novel- 
writers  not  seldom  perpetrate,  is  the  sin  of 
grandiloquence,  or  tall-talking,  against  which, 
for  my  part,  I  will  offer  up  a  special  libera  me. 
This  is  the  sin  of  schoolmasters,  governesses, 
critics,  sermoners,  and  instructors  of  young  or 
old  people.  Nay  (for  I  am  making  a  clean 
breast,  and  liberating  my  soul),  perhaps  of  all 
the  novel  -  spinners  now  extant,  the  present 
speaker  is  the  most  addicted  to  preaching. 
Does  he  not  stop  perpetually  in  his  story  and 
begin  to  preach  to  you  ?  When  he  ought  to 
be  engaged  with  business,  is  he  not  forever 
taking  the  Muse  by  the  sleeve,  and  plaguing 
her  with  some  of  his  cynical  sermons  ?  I  cry 
peccavi  loudly  and  heartily.  I  tell  you  I  would 
like  to  be  able  to  write  a  story  which  should 
show  no   egotism   whatever  —  in   which   there 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  197 

should  be  no  reflections,  no  cynicism,  no  vulgarity 
(and  so  forth),  but  an  incident  in  every  other 
page,  a  villain,  a  battle,  a  mystery  in  every 
chapter.  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  feed  a 
reader  so  spicily  as  to  leave  him  hungering  and 
thirsting  for  more  at  the  end  of  every  monthly 
meal. 

Alexandre  Dumas  describes  himself,  when 
inventing  the  plan  of  a  work,  as  lying  silent  on 
his  back  for  two  whole  days  on  the  deck  of  a 
yacht  in  a  Mediterranean  port.  At  the  end  of 
the  two  days  he  arose  and  called  for  dinner. 
In  those  two  days  he  had  built  his  plot.  He 
had  moulded  a  mighty  clay,  to  be  cast  presently 
in  perennial  brass.  The  chapters,  the  char- 
acters, the  incidents,  the  combinations  were  all 
arranged  in  the  artist's  brain  ere  he  set  a  pen 
to  paper.  My  Pegasus  won't  fly,  so  as  to  let 
me  survey  the  field  below  me.  He  has  no 
wings,  he  is  blind  of  one  eye  certainly,  he  is 
restive,  stubborn,  slow  ;  crops  a  hedge  when  he 
ought  to  be  galloping,  or  gallops  when  he  ought 
to  be  quiet.  He  never  will  show  off  when  I 
want  him.  Sometimes  he  goes  at  a  pace  which 
surprises  me.  Sometimes,  when  I  most  wish 
him  to  make  the  running,  the  brute  turns 
restive,  and  I  am  obliged  to  let  him  take  his 
own  time.      I  wonder  do  other  novel-writers 


198  THACKERAY. 

experience  this  fatalism?  They  must  go  a 
certain  way,  in  spite  of  themselves.  I  have 
been  surprised  at  the  observations  made  by 
some  of  my  characters.  It  seems  as  if  an 
occult  Power  was  moving  the  pen.  The  per- 
sonage does  or  says  something,  and  I  ask,  how 
the  dickens  did  he  come  to  think  of  that  ? 
Every  man  has  remarked  in  dreams,  the  vast 
dramatic  power  which  is  sometimes  evinced  ;  I 
won't  say  the  surprising  power,  for  nothing  does 
surprise  you  in  dreams.  But  those  strange 
characters  you  meet  make  instant  observations 
of  which  you  never  can  have  thought  previously. 
In  like  manner,  the  imagination  foretells  things. 
We  spake  anon  of  the  inflated  style  of  some 
writers.  What  also  if  there  is  an  affiated  style, 
—  when  a  writer  is  like  a  Pythoness  on  her 
oracle  tripod,  and  mighty  words,  words  which 
he  cannot  help,  come  blowing,  and  bellowing, 
and  whistling,  and  moaning  through  the  speak- 
ing pipes  of  his  bodily  organ  ?  I  have  told  you 
it  was  a  very  queer  shock  to  me  the  other  day 
wlien,  with  a  letter  of  introduction  in  his  hand, 
the  artist's  (not  my)  Philip  Firmin  walked  into 
this  room,  and  sat  down  in  the  chair  opposite. 
In  the  novel  of  "  Pendennis,"  written  ten  years 
ago,  there  is  an  account  of  a  certain  Costigan, 
whom  I  had  invented  (as  I  suppose  authors  in- 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  199 

vent  their  personages  out  of  scraps,  heel-taps, 
odds  and  ends  of  characters).  I  was  smoking 
in  a  tavern  parlor  one  night  —  and  this  Costigan 
came  into  the  room  alive  —  the  very  man  :  — 
the  most  remarkable  resemblance  of  the  printed 
sketches  of  the  man,  of  the  rude  drawings  in 
which  I  had  depicted  him.  He  had  the  same 
little  coat,  the  same  batteped  hat,  cocked  on 
one  eye,  the  same  twinkle  in  that  eye.  "  Sir," 
said  I,  knowing  him  to  be  an  old  friend  whom 
I  had  met  in  unknown  regions,  "sir,"  I  said, 
"  may  I  offer  you  a  glass  of  brandy-and-water  ?  " 
"  Bedad,  ye  may,^^  says  he,  "  and  1  HI  sing  ye  a 
song  tu."  Of  course  he  spoke  with  an  Irish 
brogue.  Of  course  he  had  been  in  the  army. 
In  ten  minutes  he  pulled  out  an  Army  Agent's 
account,  whereon  his  name  was  written.  A  few 
months  after  we  read  of  him  in  a  police  court. 
How  had  I  come  to  know  him,  to  divme  him  ? 
Nothing  shall  convince  me  that  I  have  not  seen 
that  man  in  the  world  of  spirits.  In  the  world 
of  spirits  and  water  I  know  I  did  :  but  that  is 
a  mere  quibble  of  words.  I  was  not  surprised 
when  he  spoke  in  an  Irish  brogue.  I  had  had 
cognizance  of  him  before  somehow.  Who  has 
not  felt  that  little  shock  which  arises  when  a 
person,  a  place,  some  words  in  a  book  (there  is 
always  a  collocation)  present  themselves  to  you. 


200  THACKERAY. 

and  you  know  that  you  have  before  met  the 
same  person,  words,  scene,  and  so  forth  ? 

They  used  to  call  the  good  Sir  Walter  the 
"  Wizard  of  the  North."  What  if  some  writer 
should  appear  who  can  write  so  enchantingly 
that  he  shall  be  able  to  call  into  actual  life  the 
people  whom  he  invents  ?  What  if  Mignon, 
and  Margaret,  and  Goetz  von  Berlichingen  are 
alive  now  (though  I  don't  say  they  are  visible), 
and  Dugald  Dalgetty  and  Ivanhoe  were  to  step 
in  at  that  open  window  by  the  little  garden 
yonder  ?  Suppose  Uncas  and  our  noble  old 
Leather  Stocking  were  to  glide  silent  in  ? 
Suppose  Athos,  Porthos,  and  Aramis  should 
enter  with  a  noiseless  swagger,  curling  their 
moustaches  ?  And  dearest  Amelia  Booth,  on 
Uncle  Toby's  arm  ;  and  Tittlebat  Titmouse, 
with  his  hair  dyed  green  ;  and  all  the  Crummies 
company  of  comedians,  with  the  Gil  Bias  troop  ; 
and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  ;  and  the  great- 
est of  all  crazy  gentlemen,  the  Knight  of  La 
Mancha,  with  his  blessed  squire  ?  I  say  to 
you,  I  look  rather  wistfully  towards  the  window, 
musing  upon  these  people.  Were  any  of  them 
to  enter,  I  think  I  should  not  be  very  much 
frightened.  Dear  old  friends,  what  pleasant 
hours  I  have  had  with  them  !  We  do  not  see 
each  other  very  often,  but  when  we  do,  we  are 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  201 

ever  happy  to  meet.  I  had  a  capital  half-hour 
with  Jacob  Faithful  last  night  ;  when  the  last 
sheet  was  corrected,  when  "  Finis "  had  been 
written,  and  the  printer's  boy,  with  the  copy, 
was  safe  in  Green  Arbor  Court. 

So  you  are  gone,  little  printer's  boy,  with 
the  last  scratches  and  corrections  on  the  proof, 
and  a  fine  flourish  by  way  of  Finis  at  the  story's 
end.  The  last  corrections  ?  I  say  those  last 
corrections  seem  never  to  be  finished.  A  plague 
upon  the  weeds  !  Every  day,  when  I  walk  in 
my  own  little  literary  garden-plot,  I  spy  some, 
and  should  like  to  have  a  spud,  and  root  them 
out.  Those  idle  words,  neighbor,  are  past  rem- 
edy. That  turning  back  to  the  old  pages  pro- 
duces anything  but  elation  of  mind.  Would 
you  not  pay  a  pretty  fine  to  be  able  to  cancel 
some  of  them  ?  Oh,  the  sad  old  pages,  the  dull 
old  pages  !  Oh,  the  cares,  the  ennui,  the 
squabbles,  the  repetitions,  the  old  conversations 
over  and  over  again  !  But  now  and  again  a 
kind  thought  is  recalled,  and  now  and  again  a 
dear  memory.  Yet  a  few  chapters  more,  and 
then  the  last :  after  which,  behold  Finis  itself 
come  to  an  end,  and  the  Infinite  begun. 


202  THACKERAY. 


AUTOUR  DE  MON  CHAPEAU. 

Never  have  I  seen  a  more  noble  tragic  face. 
In  the  centre  of  the  forehead  there  was  a  great 
furrow  of  care,  towards  which  the  brows  rose 
piteously.  What  a  deep  solemn  grief  in  t^e 
eyes !  They  looked  blankly  at  the  object  be- 
fore them,  but  through  it,  as  it  were,  and  into 
the  grief  beyond.  In  moments  of  pain,  have 
you  not  looked  at  some  indifferent  object  so  ? 
It  mingles  dumbly  with  your  grief,  and  remains 
afterwards  connected  with  it  in  your  mind.  It 
may  be  some  indifferent  thing  —  a  book  you 
were  reading  at  the  time  when  you  received  her 
farewell  letter  (how  well  you  remember  the 
paragraph  afterwards  — the  shape  of  the  words, 
and  their  position  on  the  page)  ;  the  words  you 
were  writing  when  your  mother  came  in,  and 
said  it  was  all  over  —  she  was  married  — 
Emily  married  —  to  that  insignificant  little 
rival  at  whom  you  have  laughed  a  hundred 
times  in  her  company.  Well,  well  ;  my  friend 
and  reader,  whoe'er  you  be  —  old  man  or 
young,  wife  or  maiden  —  you  have  had  your 
grief-pang.  Boy,  you  have  lain  awake  the  first 
night  at  school,  and  thought  of  home.  Worse 
still,  man,  you  have  parted  from  the  dear  ones 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  203 

with  bursting  heart :  and,  lonely  boy,  recall  the 
bolstering  an  unfeeling  comrade  gave  you  ;  and, 
lonely  man  just  torn  from  your  children  —  their 
little  tokens  of  affection  yet  in  your  pocket  — 
pacing  the  deck  at  evening  in  the  midst  of  the 
roaring  ocean,  you  can  remember  how  you  were 
told  that  supper  was  ready,  and  how  you  went 
down  to  the  cabin  and  had  brandy-and- water 
and  biscuit.  You  remember  the  taste  of  them. 
Yes  ;  forever.  You  took  them  whilst  you  and 
your  Grief  were  sitting  together,  and  your  Grief 
clutched  you  round  the  soul.  Serpent,  how  you 
have  writhed  round  me,  and  bitten  me.  Re- 
morse, Remembrance,  etc.,  come  in  the  night 
season,  and  I  feel  you  gnawing,  gnawing  !  .  .  . 
I  tell  you  that  man's  face  was  like  Laocobn's 
(which,  by  the  way,  I  always  think  over-rated. 
The  real  head  is  at  Brussels,  at  the  Duke 
Daremberg's,  not  at  Rome). 

That  man  !  What  man  ?  That  man  of 
whom  I  said  that  his  magnificent  countenance 
exhibited  the  noblest  tragic  woe.  He  was  not 
of  European  blood.  He  was  handsome,  but  not 
of  European  beauty.  His  face  white  —  not  of 
a  northern  whiteness  ;  his  eyes  protruding  some- 
what and  rolling  in  their  grief.  Those  eyes 
had  seen  the  Orient  sun,  and  his  beak  was  the 
le's.     His  lips  were  full.     The  beard,  curl- 


204  THACKERAY. 

ing  round  them,  was  unkempt  and  tawny.  The 
locks  were  of  a  deep,  deep  coppery  red.  The 
hands,  swart  and  powerful,  accustomed  to  the 
rough  grasp  of  the  wares  in  which  he  dealt, 
seemed  unused  to  the  flimsy  artifices  of  the 
bath.  He  came  from  the  Wilderness,  and  its 
sands  were  on  his  robe,  his  cheek,  his  tattered 
sandal,  and  the  hardy  foot  it  covered. 

And  his  grief  —  whence  came  his  sorrow  ?  I 
will  tell  you.  He  bore  it  in  his  hand.  He  had 
evidently  just  concluded  the  compact  by  which 
it  became  his.  His  business  was  that  of  a  pur- 
chaser of  domestic  raiment.  At  early  dawn  — 
nay,  at  what  hour  when  the  city  is  alive  —  do 
we  not  all  hear  the  nasal  cry  of  "  Clo  "  ?  In 
Paris,  Habits  Galons,  Marchand  d'habits,  is  the 
twanging  signal  with  which  the  wandering  mer- 
chant makes  his  presence  known.  It  was  in 
Paris  I  saw  this  man.  Where  else  have  I  not 
seen  him  ?  In  the  Roman  Ghetto  —  at  the 
Gate  of  David,  in  his  fathers'  once  imperial 
city.  The  man  I  mean  was  an  itmerant  vender 
and  purchaser  of  wardrobes  —  what  you  call  an 
.  .  .  Enough  !     You  know  his  name. 

On  his  left  shoulder  hung  his  bag  ;  and  he 
held  in  that  hand  a  white  hat,  which  I  am  sure 
he  had  just  purchased  and  which  was  the  cause 
of  the  grief  which  smote  liis  noble  features.     Of 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  205 

course  I  cannot  particularize  the  sum,  but  he 
had  given  too  much  for  that  hat.  He  felt  he 
might  have  got  the  thing  for  less  money.  It 
was  not  the  amount,  I  am  sure  ;  it  was  the 
principle  involved.  He  had  given  fourpence 
(let  us  say)  for  that  which  threepence  would 
have  purchased.  He  had  been  done  :  and  a 
manly  shame  was  upon  him,  that  he,  whose 
energy,  acuteness,  experience,  point  of  honor, 
should  have  made  him  the  victor  in  any  mer- 
cantile duel  in  which  he  should  engage,  had 
been  overcome  by  a  porter's  wife,  who  very 
likely  sold  him  the  old  hat,  or  by  a  student 
who  was  tired  of  it.  I  can  understand  his 
grief.  Do  I  seem  to  be  speaking  of  it  in  a  dis- 
respectful or  flippant  way  ?  Then  you  mistake 
me.  He  had  been  outwitted.  He  had  desired, 
coaxed,  schemed,  haggled,  got  what  he  wanted, 
and  now  found  he  had  paid  too  much  for  his 
bargain.  You  don't  suppose  I  would  ask  you 
to  laugh  at  that  man's  grief  ?  It  is  you, 
clumsy  cynic,  who  are  disposed  to  sneer,  whilst 
it  may  be  tears  of  genuine  sympathy  are  trick- 
ling down  this  nose  of  mine.  What  do  you 
mean  by  laughing  ?  If  you  saw  a  wounded 
soldier  on  the  field  of  battle,  would  you  laugh  ? 
If  you  saw  a  ewe  robbed  of  her  lamb,  would 
you  laugh,  you  brute  ?     It  is  you  who  are  the 


206  THACKERAY. 

cynic,  and  have  no  feeling  :  and  you  sneer 
because  that  grief  is  unintelligible  to  you 
which  touches  my  finer  sensibility.  The  Old- 
Clothes-Man  had  been  defeated  in  one  of  the 
daily  battles  of  his  most  interesting,  checkered^, 
adventurous  life. 

Have  you  ever  figured  to  yourself  what  such 
a  life  must  be  ?  The  pursuit  and  conquest  of 
twopence  must  be  the  most  eager  and  fascinat- 
ing of  occupations.  We  might  all  engage  in 
that  business  if  we  would.  Do  not  whist-play- 
ers, for  example,  toil,  and  think,  and  lose  their 
temper  over  sixpenny  points  ?  They  bring 
study,  natural  genius,  long  forethought,  mem- 
ory, and  careful  historical  experience  to  bear 
upon  their  favorite  labor.  Don't  tell  me  that 
it  is  the  sixpenny  points,  and  five  shillings  the 
rub,  which  keeps  them  for  hours  over  their 
painted  pasteboard.  It  is  the  desire  to  con- 
quer. Hours  pass  by.  Night  glooms.  Dawn, 
it  may  be,  rises  unheeded  ;  and  they  sit  calling 
for  fresh  cards  at  the  "  Portland,"  or  the 
"  Union,"  while  waning  caudles  splutter  in  the 
sockets,  and  languid  waiters  snooze,  in  the  ante- 
room. Sol  rises.  Jones  has  lost  four  pounds  : 
Brown  has  won  two  ;  Robinson  lurks  away  to 
his  family  house  and  (mayhap  indignant)  Mrs. 
R.     Hours   of  evening,  night,   morning,   have 


ROUNDABOUT  PAPERS.  207 

passed  away  whilst  they  have  been  waging  this 
sixpenny  battle.  What  is  the  loss  of  four 
pounds  to  Jones,  the  gain  of  two  to  Brown  ? 
B.  is,  perhaps,  so  rich  that  two  pounds  more  or 
less  are  as  naught  to  him  ;  J.  is  so  hopelessly 
involved  that  to  win  four  pounds  cannot  benefit 
his  creditors,  or  alter  his  condition  ;  but  they 
play  for  that  stake  :  they  put  forward  their 
best  energies  :  they  ruff,  finesse  (what  are  the 
technical  words,  and  how  do  I  know?).  It  is 
but  a  sixpenny  game  if  you  like  ;  but  they  want 
to  win  it.  So  as  regards  my  friend  yonder 
with  the  hat.  He  stakes  his  money  :  he  wishes 
to  win  the  game,  not  the  hat  merely.  I  am  not 
prepared  to  say  that  he  is  not  inspired  by  a 
noble  ambition.  Caesar  wished  to  be  first  in  a 
village.  If  first  of  a  hundred  yokels,  why  not 
first  of  two  ?  And  my  friend  the  old-clothes- 
man wishes  to  win  his  game,  as  well  as  to  turn 
his  little  sixpence. 

Suppose  in  the  game  of  life  —  and  it  is  but  a 
twopenny  game  after  all  —  you  are  equally 
eager  of  winning.  Shall  you  be  ashamed  of 
your  ambition,  or  glory  in  it  ?  There  are 
games,  too,  which  are  becoming  to  particular 
periods  of  life.  I  remember  in  the  days  of  our 
youth,  when  my  friend  Arthur  Bowler  was  an 
eminent  cricketer.     Slim,  swift,   strong,  well- 


208  THACKERAY. 

built,  he  presented  a  goodly  appearance  on  the 
ground  in  his  flannel  uniform.  Militdsti  non 
sine  gloria,  Bowler  my  boy  !  Hush  !  We  tell 
no  tales.  Mum  is  the  word.  Yonder  comes 
Charley  his  son.  Now  Charley  his  son  has 
taken  the  field  and  is  famous  among  the  eleven 
of  his  school.  Bowler  senior,  with  his  capacious 
waistcoat,  etc.,  waddling  after  a  ball,  would 
present  an  absurd  object,  whereas  it  does  the 
eyes  good  to  see  Bowler  junior  scouring  the 
plain  —  a  young  exemplar  of  joyful  health, 
vigor,  activity.  The  old  boy  wisely  contents 
himself  with  amusements  more  becoming  his 
age  and  waist  ;  takes  his  sober  ride  ;  visits  his 
farm  soberly  —  busies  himself  about  his  pigs, 
his  ploughing,  his  peaches,  or  what  not  ?  Very 
small  routinier  amusements  interest  hini ;  and 
(thank  goodness  !)  nature  provides  very  kindly 
for  kindly-disposed  fogies.  We  relish  those 
things  which  we  scorned  in  our  lusty  youth.  I 
see  the  young  folks  of  an  evening  kindling  and 
glowing  over  their  delicious  novels.  I  look  up 
and  watch  the  eager  eye  flashing  down  the 
page,  being,  for  my  part,  perfectly  contented 
with  my  twaddling  old  volume  of  HoweVs 
Letters,  or  the  Gentleman' s  Magazine.  I  am 
actually  arrived  at  such  a  calm  frame  of  mind 
that   I  like   batter-pudding.      I   never   should 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  209 

have  believed  it  possible  ;  but  it  is  so.  Yet  a 
little  while,  and  I  may  relish  water-gruel.  It 
will  be  the  age  of  mon  lait  de  poule  et  mon  bon- 
net de  nuit.  And  then  —  the  cotton  extinguisher 
is  pulled  over  the  old  noddle,  and  the  little 
flame  of  life  is  popped  out. 

Don't  you  know  elderly  people  who  make 
learned  notes  in  Army  Lists,  Peerages,  and  the 
like  ?  This  is  the  batter-pudding,  water-gruel 
of  old  age.  The  worn-out  old  digestion  does 
not  care  for  stronger  food.  Formerly  it  could 
swallow  twelve  hours'  tough  reading,  and  digest 
an  encyclopaedia. 

If  I  had  children  to  educate,  I  would,  at  ten 
or  twelve  years  of  age,  have  a  professor,  or  pro- 
fessoress,  of  whist  for  them,  and  cause  them 
to  be  well  grounded  in  that  great  and  useful 
game.  You  camiot  learn  it  well  when  you  are 
old,  any  more  than  you  can  learn  dancing  or 
billiards.  In  our  house  at  home  we  youngsters 
did  not  play  whist  because  we  were  dear  obedi- 
ent children,  and  the  elders  said  playing  at  cards 
was  "  a  waste  of  time."  A  waste  of  time,  my 
good  people  !  Allans  !  What  do  elderly  home- 
keeping  people  do  of  a  night  after  dinner  ? 
Darby  gets  his  newspaper  ;  my  dear  Joan  her 
Missionary  Magazine  or  her  volume  of  Cum- 
ming's   Sermons — and   don't  you   know  what 


210  THACKERAY. 

ensues  ?  Over  the  arm  of  Darby's  arm-chair 
the  paper  flutters  to  the  ground  unheeded,  and 
he  performs  the  trumpet  obligato  que  vous  savez 
on  his  old  nose.  My  dear  old  Joan's  head  nods 
over  her  sermon  (awakening  though  the  doc- 
trine may  be).  Ding,  ding,  ding  :  can  that  be 
ten  o'clock  ?  It  is  time  to  send  the  servants  to 
bed,  my  dear  —  and  to  bed  master  and  mistress 
go  too.  But  they  have  not  wasted  their  time 
playing  at  cards.  Oh,  no  !  I  belong  to  a  Club 
where  there  is  whist  of  a  night  ;  and  not  a 
little  amusing  is  it  to  hear  Brown  speak  of 
Thompson's  play,  and  vice  versa.  But  there  is 
one  man  —  Greatorex  let  us  call  him  —  who  is 
the  acknowledged  captain  and  primus  of  all  the 
whist-players.  We  all  secretly  admire  him. 
I,  for  my  part,  watch  him  in  private  life, 
hearken  to  what  he  says,  note  what  he  orders 
for  dinner,  and  have  that  feeling  of  awe  for  him 
that  I  used  to  have  as  a  boy  for  the  cock  of  the 
school.  Not  play  at  whist  ?  "  Quelle  triste 
vieillesse  vous  vous  preparez  !  "  were  the  words 
of  the  great  and  good  Bishop  of  Autun.  I 
can't.  It  is  too  late  now.  Too  late  !  too  late  ! 
Ah  !  humiliating  confession  !  That  joy  might 
have  been  clutched,  but  the  life -stream  has 
swept  us  by  it  —  the  swift  life-stream  rushing 
to    the   nearing    sea.       Too    late  !    too    late ! 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  211 

Twentystone  my  boy  !  when  you  read  in  the 
papers  "  Valse  a  deux  temps, ^*  and  all  the  fash- 
ionable dances  taught  to  adults  by  "  Miss  Light- 
foots,"  don't  you  feel  that  you  would  like  to  go 
in  and  learn  ?  Ah,  it  is  too  late  !  You  have 
passed  the  choreas^  Master  Twentystone,  and 
the  young  people  are  dancing  without  you. 

I  don't  believe  much  of  what  my  Lord  Byron 
the  poet  says  ;  but  when  he  wrote ,  "  So  for  a 
good  old  gentlemanly  vice,  I  think  I  shall  put 
up  with  avarice,"  I  think  his  lordship  meant 
what  he  wrote,  and  if  he  practiced  what  he 
preached,  shall  not  quarrel  with  him.  As  an 
occupation  in  declining  years,  I  declare  I  think 
saving  is  useful,  amusing,  and  not  unbecoming. 
It  must  be  a  perpetual  amusement.  It  is  a 
game  that  can  be  played  by  day,  by  night,  at 
home  and  abroad,  and  at  which  you  must  win 
in  the  long  run.  I  am  tired  and  want  a  cab. 
The  fare  to  my  house,  say,  is  two  shillings. 
The  cabman  will  naturally  want  half  a  crown. 
I  pull  out  my  book.  I  show  him  the  distance 
is  exactly  three  miles  and  fifteen  hundred  and 
ninety  yards.  I  offer  him  my  card  —  my  win- 
ning card.  As  he  retires  with  the  two  shillings, 
blaspheming  inwardly,  every  curse  is  a  compli- 
ment to  my  skill.  I  have  played  him  and  beat 
him  ;  and  a  sixpence  is  my  spoil  and  just  reward. 


212  THACKERAY. 

This  is  a  game,  by  the  way,  which  women  play 
far  more  cleverly  than  we  do.  But  what  an 
interest  it  imparts  to  life  !  During  the  whole 
drive  home  I  know  I  shall  have  my  game  at 
the  journey's  end  ;  am  sure  of  my  hand,  and 
shall  beat  my  adversary.  Or  I  can  play  in  an- 
other way.  I  won't  have  a  cab  at  all,  I  will 
wait  for  the  omnibus  :  I  will  be  one  of  the  damp 
fourteen  in  that  steaming  vehicle.  I  will  wait 
about  in  the  rain  for  an  hour,  and  'bus  after 
'bus  shall  pass,  but  I  will  not  be  beat.  I  will 
have  a  place,  and  get  it  at  length,  with  my 
boots  wet  through,  and  an  umbrella  dripping 
between  my  legs.  I  have  a  rheumatism,  a  cold, 
a  sore  throat,  a  sulky  evening,  —  a  doctor's  bill 
to-morrow,  perhaps  ?  Yes,  but  I  have  won  my 
game,  and  am  gainer  of  a  shilling  on  this 
rubber. 

If  you  play  this  game  all  through  life  it  is 
wonderful  what  daily  interest  it  has,  and  amus- 
ing occupation.  For  instance,  my  wife  goes 
to  sleep  after  dinner  over  her  volume  of  ser- 
mons. As  soon  as  the  dear  soul  is  sound  asleep, 
I  advance  softly  and  puff  out  her  candle.  Her 
pure  dreams  will  be  all  the  happier  without 
that  light  ;  and,  say  she  sleeps  an  hour,  there 
is  a  penny  gained. 

As  for  clothes,  parhleu  !    there  is  not  much 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  213 

money  to  be  saved  in  clothes,  for  the  fact  is,  as 
a  man  advances  in  life  —  as  he  becomes  an 
Ancient  Briton  (mark  the  pleasantry)  — he  goes 
without  clothes.  When  my  tailor  proposes 
sometliiug  in  the  way  of  a  change  of  raiment, 
I  laugh  in  his  face.  My  blue  coat  and  brass 
buttons  will  last  these  ten  years.  It  is  seedy  ? 
What  then  ?  I  don't  want  to  charm  anybody 
in  particular.  You  say  that  my  clothes  are 
shabby  ?  What  do  I  care  ?  When  I  wished 
to  look  well  in  somebody's  eyes,  the  matter 
may  have  been  different.  But  now,  when  I 
receive  my  bill  of  101.  (let  us  say)  at  the  year's 
end,  and  contrast  it  with  old  tailors'  reckonings, 
I  feel  that  I  have  played  the  game  with  master 
tailor,  and  beat  him  ;  and  my  old  clothes  are 
a  token  of  the  victory. 

I  do  not  like  to  give  servants  board-wages, 
though  they  are  cheaper  than  household  bills  : 
but  I  know  they  save  out  of  board-wages,  and 
so  beat  me.  This  shows  that  it  is  not  the  money 
but  the  game  which  interests  me.  So  about 
wine.  I  have  it  good  and  dear.  I  will  trouble 
you  to  tell  me  where  to  get  it  good  and  cheap. 
You  may  as  well  give  me  the  address  of  a  shop 
where  I  can  buy  meat  for  fourpence  a  pound, 
or  sovereigns  for  fifteen  shillings  apiece.  At 
the  game  of  auctions,  docks,  shy  wine-merchants, 


214  THACKERAY. 

depend  on  it  there  is  no  winning  ;  and  I  would 
as  soon  think  of  buying  jewelry  at  an  auction 
in  Fleet  Street  as  of  purchasing  wine  from  one 
of  your  dreadful  needy  wine-agents  such  as 
infest  every  man's  door.  Grudge  myself  good 
wine  ?  As  soon  grudge  my  horse  corn.  Merci  I 
that  would  be  a  very  losing  game  indeed,  and 
your  humble  servant  has  no  relish  for  such. 

But  in  the  very  pursuit  of  saving  there  must 
be  a  hundred  harmless  delights  and  pleasures 
which  we  who  are  careless  necessarily  forego. 
What  do  you  know  about  the  natural  history  of 
your  household  ?  Upon  your  honor  and  con- 
science, do  you  know  the  price  of  a  pound  of 
butter  ?  Can  you  say  what  sugar  costs,  and 
how  much  your  family  consumes  and  ought  to 
consume  ?  How  much  lard  do  you  use  in  your 
house  ?  As  I  think  on  these  subjects  I  own  I 
hang  down  the  head  of  shame.  I  suppose  for 
a  moment  that  you,  who  are  reading  this,  are 
a  middle-aged  gentleman,  and  paterfamilias. 
Can  you  answer  the  above  questions  ?  You 
know,  sir,  you  cannot.  Now  turn  round,  lay 
down  the  book,  and  suddenly  ask  Mrs.  Jones 
and  your  daughters  if  they  can  answer  ?  They 
cannot.  They  look  at  one  another.  They  pre- 
tend they  can  answer.  They  can  tell  you  the 
plot  and  principal  characters  of  the  last  novel. 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  215 

Some  of  them  know  something  about  history, 
geology,  and  so  forth.  But  of  the  natural  his- 
tory of  home  —  NichtSf  and  for  shame  on  you 
all  !  Honnis  soyez !  For  shame  on  you !  for 
shame  on  us  ! 

In  the  early  morning  I  hear  a  sort  of  call  or 
jodel  under  my  window  :  and  know  't  is  the 
matutinal  milkman  leaving  his  can  at  my  gate. 
O  household  gods  !  have  I  lived  all  these  years 
and  don't  know  the  price  or  the  quantity  of  the 
milk  which  is  delivered  in  that  can  ?  Why 
don't  I  know  ?  As  I  live,  if  I  live  till  to-mor- 
row morning,  as  soon  as  I  hear  the  call  of 
Lactantius,  I  will  dash  out  upon  him.  How 
many  cows  ?  How  much  milk,  on  an  average, 
all  the  year  round  ?  What  rent  ?  What  cost 
of  food  and  dairy  servants  ?  What  loss  of  ani- 
mals, and  average  cost  of  purchase  ?  If  I  in- 
terested myself  properly  about  my  pint  (or 
hogshead,  whatever  it  be)  of  milk,  all  this 
knowledge  would  ensue  ;  all  this  additional  in- 
terest in  life.  What  is  this  talk  of  my  friend, 
Mr.  Lewes,  about  objects  at  the  seaside,  and  so 
forth  ?  1  Objects  at  the  seaside  ?  Objects  at 
the  area-bell  :  objects  before  my  nose  :  objects 
which  the  butcher  brings  me  in  his  tray  :  which 
the  cook  dresses  and  puts  down  before  me,  and 
1  Seaside  Studies.    By  G.  H.  Lewes. 


216  THACKERAY. 

over  which  I  say  grace  !  My  daily  life  is  sur- 
rounded with  objects  which  ought  to  interest 
me.  The  pudding  1  eat  (or  refuse,  that  is  nei- 
ther here  nor  there  ;  and,  between  ourselves, 
what  I  have  said  about  batter-pudding  may  be 
taken  cum  grano  —  we  are  not  come  to  that  yet, 
except  for  the  sake  of  argument  or  illustration) 
—  the  pudding,  I  say,  on  my  plate,  the  eggs 
that  made  it,  the  fire  that  cooked  it,  the  table- 
cloth on  which  it  is  laid,  and  so  forth  —  are 
each  and  all  of  these  objects  a  knowledge  of 
which  I  may  acquire  —  a  knowledge  of  the 
cost  and  production  of  which  I  might  advan- 
tageously learn.  To  the  man  who  does  know 
these  things,  I  say  the  interest  of  life  is  pro- 
digiously increased.  The  milkman  becomes  a 
study  to  him  ;  the  baker  a  being  he  curiously 
and  tenderly  examines.  Go,  Lewes,  and  clap  a 
hideous  sea-anemone  into  a  glass  :  I  will  put  a 
cabman  under  mine,  and  make  a  vivisection  of 
a  butcher.  O  Lares,  Penates,  and  gentle  house- 
hold gods,  teach  me  to  sympathize  with  all  that 
comes  within  my  doors  !  Give  me  an  interest 
in  the  butcher's  book.  Let  us  look  forward  to 
the  ensuing  number  of  the  grocer's  account  with 
eagerness.  It  seems  ungrateful  to  my  kitchen- 
chimney  not  to  know  the  cost  of  sweeping  it  ; 
and  I  trust  that  many  a  man  who  reads  this, 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  217 

and  muses  on  it,  will  feel,  like  the  writer, 
ashamed  of  himself,  and  hang  down  his  head 
humbly. 

Now,  if  to  this  household  game  you  could 
add  a  little  money  interest,  the  amusement 
would  be  increased  far  beyond  the  mere  money 
value,  as  a  game  at  cards  for  sixpence  is  better 
than  a  rubber  for  nothing.  If  you  can  interest 
yourseK  about  sixpence,  all  life  is  invested  with 
a  new  excitement.  From  sunrise  to  sleeping 
you  can  always  be  playing  that  game  —  with 
butcher,  baker,  coal-merchant,  cabman,  omni- 
bus man  —  nay,  diamond  merchant  and  stock- 
broker. You  can  bargain  for  a  guinea  over  the 
price  of  a  diamond  necklace,  or  for  a  sixteenth 
per  cent,  in  a  transaction  at  the  Stock  Ex- 
change. We  all  know  men  who  have  this 
faculty  who  are  not  ungenerous  with  their 
money.  They  give  it  on  great  occasions.  They 
are  more  able  to  help  than  you  and  I  who  spend 
ours,  and  say  to  poor  Prodigal  who  comes  to  us 
out  at  elbow,  "My  dear  fellow,  I  should  have 
been  delighted ;  but  I  have  already  anticipated 
my  quarter,  and  am  going  to  ask  Sere  why  if 
he  can  do  anything  for  me." 

In  this  delightful,  wholesome,  ever-novel 
twopenny  game,  there  is  a  danger  of  excess,  as 
there  is  in  every  other  pastime  or  occupation 


218  "  THACKERAY. 

of  life.  If  you  grow  too  eager  for  your  two- 
pence, the  acquisition  or  the  loss  of  it  may 
affect  your  peace  of  mind,  and  peace  of  mind 
is  better  than  any  amount  of  twopences.  My 
friend,  the  old-clothes'-man,  whose  agonies  over 
the  hat  have  led  to  this  rambling  disquisition, 
has,  I  very  much  fear,  by  a  too  eager  pursuit 
of  small  profits,  disturbed  the  equanimity  of  a 
mind  that  ought  to  be  easy  and  happy.  "  Had 
I  stood  out,"  he  thinks,  "  I  might  have  had  the 
hat  for  threepence,"  and  he  doubts  whether, 
having  given  fourpence  for  it,  he  will  ever  get 
back  his  money.  My  good  Shadrach,  if  you  go 
through  life  passionately  deploring  the  irrev- 
ocable, and  allow  yesterday's  transactions  to 
embitter  the  cheerfulness  of  to-day  and  to-mor- 
row —  as  lief  walk  down  to  the  Seine,  souse  in, 
hats,  body,  clothes-bag  and  all,  and  put  an  end 
to  your  sorrow  and  sordid  cares.  Before  and 
since  Mr.  Franklin  wrote  his  pretty  apologue 
of  the  Whistle  have  we  not  all  made  bargains 
of  which  we  repented,  and  coveted  and  acquired 
objects  for  which  we  have  paid  too  dearly  ! 
Who  has  not  purchased  his  hat  in  some  market 
or  other  ?  There  is  General  McClellan's  cocked 
hat  for  example  ;  I  dare  say  he  was  eager 
enough  to  wear  it,  and  he  has  learned  that  it 
is  by  no  means  cheerful  wear.     There  were  the 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  219 

military  beavers  of  Messeigneurs  of  Orleans  :  ^ 
they  wore  them  gallantly  in  the  face  of  battle  ; 
but  I  suspect  they  were  glad  enough  to  pitch 
them  into  the  James  River  and  come  home  in 
mufti.  Ah,  mes  amis  !  a  cJiacun  son  schakot ! 
I  was  looking  at  a  bishop  the  other  day,  and 
thinking,  "  ]My  right  reverend  lord,  that  broad- 
brim and  rosette  must  bind  your  great  broad 
forehead  very  tightly,  and  give  you  many  a 
headache.  A  good  easy  wideawake  were  bet- 
ter for  you,  and  I  would  like  to  see  that  honest 
face  with  a  cutty-pipe  in  the  middle  of  it." 
There  is  my  Lord  Mayor.  My  once  dear  lord, 
my  kind  friend,  when  your  two  years'  reign 
was  over,  did  you  not  jump  for  joy  and  fling 
your  cheapeau-bras  out  of  window  :  and  has  n't 
that  hat  cost  you  a  pretty  bit  of  money  ? 
There,  in  a  splendid  traveling  chariot,  in  the 
sweetest  bonnet,  all  trimmed  with  orange-blos- 
soms and  Chantilly  lace,  sits  my  Lady  Rosa, 
with  old  Lord  Snowden  by  her  side.  Ah,  Rosa! 
what  a  price  have  you  paid  for  that  hat  which 
you  wear  !  and  is  your  ladyship's  coronet  not 
purchased  too  dear  ?  Enough  of  hats.  Sir,  or 
Madam,  I  take  off  mine,  and  salute  you  with 
profound  respect. 

1  Two  cadets  of  the  House  of  Orleans  who  served  as  Volun- 
teers under  General  McCIellan  in  his  campaign  against  Rich- 
mond. 


220  THACKERAY. 


THE  LAST  SKETCH. 

Not  many  days  since  I  went  to  visit  a  house 
where  in  former  years  I  had  received  many  a 
friendly  welcome.  We  went  into  the  owner's 
—  an  artist's  —  studio.  Prints,  pictures,  and 
sketches  hung  on  the  walls  as  I  had  last  seen 
and  remembered  them.  The  implements  of  the 
painter's  art  were  there.  The  light  which  had 
shone  upon  so  many,  many  hours  of  patient  and 
cheerful  toil  poured  through  the  northern  win- 
dow upon  print  and  bust,  lay  figure  and  sketch, 
and  upon  the  easel  before  which  the  good,  the 
gentle,  the  beloved  Leslie  labored.  In  this 
room  the  busy  brain  had  devised,  and  the 
skillful  hand  executed,  I  know  not  how  many 
of  the  noble  works  which  have  delighted  the 
world  with  their  beauty  and  charming  humor. 
Here  the  poet  called  vip  into  pictorial  presence, 
and  informed  with  life,  grace,  beauty,  infinite 
friendly  mirth  and  wondrous  naturalness  of  ex- 
pression, the  people  of  whom  his  dear  books 
told  him  the  stories, — his  Shakespeare,  his  Cer- 
vantes, his  Moli^re,  his  Le  Sage.  There  was 
his  last  work  on  the  easel  —  a  beautiful  fresh 
smiling  shape  of  Titania,  such  as  his  sweet 
guileless  fancy  imagined  the  Midsummer  Night's 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  221 

queen  to  be.  Gracious,  and  pure,  and  bright, 
the  sweet  smiling  image  glimmers  on  the  can- 
vas. Fairy  elves,  no  doubt,  were  to  have  been 
grouped  around  their  mistress  in  laughing  clus- 
ters. Honest  Bottom's  grotesque  head  and 
form  are  indicated  as  reposing  by  the  side  of 
the  consummate  beauty.  The  darkling  forest 
would  have  grown  around  them,  with  the  stars 
glittering  from  the  midsummer  sky  ;  the  flow- 
ers at  the  queen's  feet,  and  the  boughs  and 
foliage  about  her,  would  have  been  peopled 
with  gamboling  sprites  and  fays.  They  were 
dwelling  in  the  artist's  mind,  no  doubt,  and 
would  have  been  developed  by  that  patient, 
faithful,  admirable  genius  :  but  the  busy  brain 
stopped  working,  the  skillful  hand  fell  lifeless, 
the  loving,  honest  heart  ceased  to  beat.  What 
was  she  to  have  been  —  that  fair  Titania  — 
when  perfected  by  the  patient  skill  of  the  poet, 
who  in  imagination  saw  the  sweet  innocent 
figure,  and  with  tender  courtesy  and  caresses, 
as  it  were,  posed  and  shaped  and  traced  the 
fair  form  ?  Is  there  record  kept  anywhere 
of  fancies  conceived,  beautiful,  unborn  ?  Some 
day  will  they  assume  form  in  some  yet  unde- 
veloped light  ?  If  our  bad  unspoken  thoughts 
are  registered  against  us,  and  are  written  in 
the  awful  account,  will  not  the  good  thoughts 


222  THACKERAY. 

unspoken,  the  love  and  tenderness,  the  pity, 
beauty,  charity,  which  pass  through  the  breast, 
and  cause  the  heart  to  throb  with  silent  good, 
find  a  remembrance  too  ?  A  few  weeks  more, 
and  this  lovely  offspring  of  the  poet's  concep- 
tion would  have  been  complete  —  to  charm  the 
world  with  its  beautiful  mirth.  May  there  not 
be  some  sphere  unknown  to  us  where  it  may 
have  an  existence  ?  They  say  our  words,  once 
out  of  our  lips,  go  traveling  in  omne  cevum, 
reverberatmg  forever  and  ever.  If  our  words, 
why  not  our  thoughts  ?  If  the  Has  Been,  why 
not  the  Might  Have  Been  ? 

Some  day  our  spirits  may  be  permitted  to 
walk  in  galleries  of  fancies  more  wondrous  and 
beautiful  than  any  achieved  works  which  at 
present  we  see,  and  our  minds  to  behold  and 
delight  in  masterpieces  which  poets'  and  artists' 
minds  have  fathered  and  conceived  only. 

With  a  feeling  much  akin  to  that  with  which 
I  looked  upon  the  friend's  —  the  admirable 
artist's  —  unfinished  work,  I  can  fancy  many 
readers  turning  to  the  last  pages  which  were 
traced  by  Charlotte  Bronte's  hand.  Of  the 
multitude  that  have  read  her  books,  who  has 
not  known  and  deplored  the  tragedy  of  her 
family,  her  own  most  sad  and  untimely  fate  ? 
Which   of    her   readers   has    not   become    her 


ROUNDABOUT   PAPERS.  223 

friend  ?  Who  that  has  known  her  books  has 
not  admired  the  artist's  noble  English,  the 
burning  love  of  truth,  the  bravery,  the  simplic- 
ity, the  indignation  at  wrong,  the  eager  sym- 
pathy, the  pious  love  and  reverence,  the  pas- 
sionate honor,  so  to  speak,  of  the  woman  ? 
What  a  story  is  that  of  that  family  of  poets  in 
their  solitude  yonder  on  the  gloomy  northern 
moors  !  At  nine  o'clock  at  night,  Mrs.  Gas- 
kell  tells,  after  evening  prayers,  when  their 
guardian  and  relative  had  gone  to  bed,  the 
three  poetesses  —  the  three  maidens,  Charlotte, 
and  Emily,  and  Anne  —  Charlotte  being  the 
"  motherly  friend  and  guardian  to  the  other 
two  "  —  "  began,  like  restless  wild  animals,  to 
pace  up  and  down  their  parlor,  '  making  out ' 
their  wonderful  stories,  talking  over  plans  and 
projects  and  thoughts  of  what  was  to  be  their 
future  life." 

One  evening  at  the  close  of  1854,  as  Char- 
lotte Xicholls  sat  with  her  husband  by  the  fire, 
listening  to  the  howling  of  the  wind  about  the 
house,  she  suddenly  said  to  her  husband,  "If 
you  had  not  been  with  me,  I  must  have  been 
writing  now."  She  then  ran  up  stairs,  and 
brought  down,  and  read  aloud,  the  beginning 
of  a  new  tale.  When  she  had  finished,  her 
husband   remarked,   "  The   critics   will   accuse 


224  THACKERAY. 

you  of  repetition."  She  replied,  "Oh!  I 
shall  alter  that.  I  always  begin  two  or  three 
times  before  I  can  please  myself."  But  it  was 
not  to  be.  The  trembling  little  hand  was  to 
write  no  more.  The  heart  newly  awakened  to 
love  and  happiness,  and  throbbing  with  mater- 
nal hope,  was  soon  to  cease  to  beat  ;  that  in- 
trepid outspeaker  and  champion  of  truth,  that 
eager,  impetuous  redresser  of  wrong,  was  to  be 
called  out  of  the  world's  fight  and  struggle,  to 
lay  down  the  shining  arms,  and  to  be  removed 
to  a  sphere  where  even  a  noble  indignation  cor 
ulterius  nequit  lacerare^  and  where  truth  com- 
plete, and  right  triumphant,  no  longer  need  to 
wage  war. 

I  can  only  say  of  this  lady,  vidi  iantum.  I 
saw  her  first  just  as  I  rose  out  of  an  illness 
from  which  I  had  never  thought  to  recover.  I 
remember  the  trembling  little  frame,  the  little 
hand,  the  great  honest  eyes.  An  impetuous 
honesty  seemed  to  me  to  characterize  the  wo- 
man. Twice  I  recollect  she  took  me  to  task 
for  what  she  held  to  be  errors  in  doctrine. 
Once  about  Fielding  we  had  a  disputation.  She 
spoke  her  mind  out.  She  jumped  too  rapidly 
to  conclusions.  (I  have  smiled  at  one  or  two 
passages  in  the  Biography,  in  which  my  own  dis- 
position or  behavior  forms  the  subject  of  talk.) 


EOUXDABOUT   PAPERS.  225 

She  formed  conclusions  that  might  be  wrong, 
and  built  whole  theories  of  character  upon 
them.  New  to  the  London  world,  she  entered 
it  with  an  independent,  indomitable  spirit  of 
her  own  ;  and  judged  of  contemporaries,  and 
especially  spied  out  arrogance  or  affectation, 
with  extraordinary  keenness  of  vision.  She 
was  angry  with  her  favorites  if  their  conduct 
or  conversation  fell  below  her  ideal.  Often  she 
seemed  to  me  to  be  judging  the  London  folk 
prematurely  :  but  perhaps  the  city  is  rather 
angry  at  being  judged.  I  fancied  an  austere 
little  Joan  of  Arc  marching  in  upon  us,  and  re- 
buking our  easy  lives,  our  easy  morals.  She 
gave  me  the  impression  of  being  a  very  pure, 
and  lofty,  and  high-minded  person.  A  great 
and  holy  reverence  of  right  and  truth  seemed 
to  be  with  her  always.  Such,  in  our  brief  in- 
terview, she  appeared  to  me.  As  one  thinks  of 
that  life  so  noble,  so  lonely  —  of  that  passion 
for  truth  —  of  those  nights  and  nights  of  eager 
study,  swarming  fancies,  invention,  depression, 
elation,  prayer  ;  as  one  reads  the  necessarily 
incomplete  though  most  touching  and  admir- 
able history  of  the  heart  that  throbbed  in  this 
one  little  frame  —  of  this  one  amongst  the  myr- 
iads of  souls  that  have  lived  and  died  on  this 
great  earth — this  great  earth? — this  little  speck 


226  THACKERAY. 

in  the  infinite  universe  of  God,  —  with  what  won- 
der do  we  think  of  to-day,  with  what  awe  await 
to-morrow,  when  that  which  is  now  bnt  darkly 
seen  shall  be  clear  !  As  I  read  this  little  frag- 
mentary sketch,  I  think  of  the  rest.  Is  it  ? 
And  where  is  it  ?  Will  not  the  leaf  be  turned 
some  day,  and  the  story  be  told  ?  Shall  the 
deviser  of  the  tale  somewhere  perfect  the  his- 
tory of  little  Emma's  griefs  and  troubles  ? 
Shall  TiTANiA  come  forth  complete  wdth  her 
sportive  court,  with  the  flowers  at  her  feet,  the 
forest  around  her,  and  all  the  stars  of  summer 
glittering  overhead  ? 

How  well  I  remember  the  delight,  and 
wonder,  and  pleasure  with  which  I  read  Jane 
Eyre,  sent  to  me  by  an  author  whose  name 
and  sex  were  then  alike  unknown  to  me  ;  the 
strange  fascinations  of  the  book  ;  and  how, 
with  my. own  work  pressing  upon  me,  I  could 
not,  having  taken  the  volumes  up,  lay  them 
down  mitil  they  were  read  through !  Hun- 
dreds of  those  who,  like  myself,  recognized  and 
admired  that  master-work  of  a  great  genius, 
will  look  with  a  mournful  interest  and  regard 
and  curiosity  upon  the  last  fragmentary  sketch 
from  the  uoblo  baud  which  wrote  Jane  Eyre. 


THE  CURATE'S  WALK. 


I. 


T  was  the  third  out  of  the  four  bell-but- 
tons at  the  door  at  which  my  friend  the 
curate  pulled  ;   and  the   summons  was 
answered  after  a  brief  interval. 

I  must  premise  that  the  house  before  which 
we  stopped  was  Xo.  14,  Sedan  Building-s,  lead- 
ing out  of  Great  Guelph  Street,  Dettingen 
Street,  CuUoden  Street,  Minden  Square  ;  and 
Upper  and  Lower  Caroline  Row  form  part  of 
the  same  quarter  —  a  very  queer  and  solemn 
quarter  to  walk  in,  I  think,  and  one  which 
always  suggests  Fielding's  novels  to  me.  I 
can  fancy  Captain  Booth  strutting  out  of  the 
very  door  at  which  we  were  standing,  in  tar- 
nished lace,  with  his  hat  cocked  over  his  eye, 
and  his  hand  on  his  hanger  ;  or  Lady  Bellaston's 
chair  and  bearers  comiu"-  swin<^in<^  down  Great 


228  THACKERAY. 

Guelph  Street,  which  we  have  just  quitted  to 
enter  Sedan  Buildings. 

Sedan  Buildings  is  a  little  flagged  square, 
ending  abruptly  with  the  huge  walls  of  Bluek's 
Brewery.  The  houses,  by  many  degrees  smaller 
than  the  large  decayed  tenements  in  Great 
Guelph  Street,  are  still  not  uncomfortable, 
although  shabby.  There  are  brass-plates  on 
the  doors,  two  on  some  of  them  :  or  simple 
names  as  "  Lunt,"  "  Padgemore,"  etc.  (as  if  no 
other  statement  about  Lunt  and  Padgemore 
were  necessary  at  all),  under  the  bells.  There 
are  pictures  of  mangles  before  two  of  the 
houses,  and  a  gilt  arm  with  a  hammer  sticking 
out  from  one.  I  never  saw  a  Goldbeater. 
What  sort  of  a  being  is  he,  that  he  always 
sticks  out  his  ensign  in  dark,  mouldy,  lonely, 
dreary,  but  somewhat  respectable  places  ? 
What  powerful  Mulciberian  fellows  they  must 
be,  those  Goldbeaters,  whacking  and  thumping 
with  huge  mallets  at  the  precious  metals  all 
day.  I  wonder  what  is  Goldbeaters'  skin  ?  and 
do  they  get  impregnated  with  the  metal  ?  and 
are  their  great  arms  under  their  clean  shirts  on 
Sundays,  all  gilt  and  shining  ? 

It  is  a  quiet,  kind,  respectable  place  some- 
how, in  spite  of  its  shabbiness.  Two  pewter 
pints  and  a  jolly  little  half-pint  are  hanging  on 


THE  curate's  walk.  229 

the  railings  in  perfect  confidence,  basking  in 
what  little  snn  comes  into  the  Court.  A  group 
of  small  children  are  making  an  ornament  of 
oyster-shells  in  one  corner.  Who  has  that 
half-pint  ?  Is  it  for  one  of  those  small  ones,  or 
for  some  delicate  female  recommended  to  take 
beer  ?  The  windows  in  the  Court,  upon  some 
of  which  the  sun  glistens,  are  not  cracked,  and 
pretty  clean  ;  it  is  only  the  black  and  dreary 
look  behind  which  gives  them  a  poverty-stricken 
appearance.  No  curtains  or  blinds,  A  bird- 
cage and  very  few  pots  of  flowers  here  and 
there.  This  —  with  the  exception  of  a  milk- 
man talking  to  a  whity-brown  woman,  made  up 
of  bits  of  flannel  and  strips  of  faded  chintz  and 
calico  seemingly,  and  holding  a  long  bundle 
which  cried  —  this  was  all  I  saw  in  Sedan 
Buildings  while  we  were  waiting  until  the  door 
should  open. 

At  last  the  door  was  opened,  and  by  a  por- 
teress  so  small,  that  I  wonder  how  she  ever 
could  have  lifted  up  the  latch.  She  bobbed  a 
courtesy,  and  smiled  at  the  Curate,  whose  face 
gleamed  with  benevolence  too,  in  reply  to  that 
salutation, 

"  Mother  not  at  home  ?  "  says  Frank  White- 
stock,  patting  the  child  on  the   head, 

"  Mother  's    out   charing,   sir,"   replied    the 


230  THACKERAY. 

girl  ;  "but  please  to  walk  up,  sir."  And  she 
led  the  way  up  oue  and  two  pair  of  stairs  to 
that  apartment  in  the  house  which  is  called  the 
second-floor  front ;  in  which  was  the  abode  of 
the  charwoman. 

There  were  two  young  persons  in  the  room, 
of  the  respective  ages  of  eight  and  five,  I  should 
think.  She  of  five  years  of  age  was  hemming 
a  duster,  being  perched  on  a  chair  at  the  table 
in  the  middle  of  the  room.  The  elder,  of  eight, 
politely  wiped  a  chair  with  a  cloth  for  the  ac- 
commodation of  the  good-natured  Curate,  and 
came  and  stood  between  his  knees,  immediately 
alongside  of  his  umbrella,  which  also  reposed 
there,  and  which  she  by  no  means  equaled  in 
height. 

"These  children,  attend  my  school  at  St. 
Timothy's,"  Mr.  Whitestock  said,  "  and  Betsy 
keeps  the  house  while  her  mother  is  from 
home." 

Anything  cleaner  or  neater  than  this  house 
it  is  impossible  to  conceive.  There  was  a  big 
bed,  which  must  have  been  the  resting-place  of 
the  whole  of  this  little  family.  There  were 
three  or  four  religious  prints  on  the  walls  ;  be- 
sides two  framed  and  glazed,  of  Prince  Coburg 
and  the  Princess  Charlotte.  There  were  brass 
candlesticks,  and  a  lamb  on  the  chimney-piece, 


THE  curate's  walk.  231 

and  a  cupboard  in  the  corner,  decorated  with 
near  half  a  dozen  plates,  yellow  bowls,  and 
crockery.  And  on  the  table  there  were  two  or 
three  bits  of  dry  bread,  and  a  jug  with  water, 
with  which  these  three  young  people  (it  being 
then  nearly  three  o'clock)  were  about  to  take 
their  meal  called  tea. 

That  little  Betsy  who  looks  so  small  is  nearly 
ten  years  old  :  and  has  been  a  mother  ever 
since  the  age  of  about  five.  I  mean  to  say  that 
her  own  mother  having  to  go  out  upon  her 
charing  operations,  Betsy  assumes  command  of 
the  room  during  her  parent's  absence  :  has 
nursed  her  sisters  from  babyhood  up  to  the 
present  time  :  keeps  order  over  them,  and  the 
house  clean  as  you  see  it ;  and  goes  out 
occasionally  and  transacts  the  family  purchases 
of  bread,  moist  sugar,  and  mother's  tea.  They 
dine  upon  bread,  tea  and  breakfast  upon  bread 
when  they  have  it,  or  go  to  bed  without  a 
morsel.  Their  holiday  is  Sunday,  which  they 
spend  at  Church  and  Sunday-school.  The 
younger  children  scarcely  ever  go  out,  save  on 
that  day,  but  sit  sometimes  in  the  sun,  which 
comes  in  pretty  pleasantly  :  sometimes  blue  in 
the  cold,  for  they  very  seldom  see  a  fire  except 
to  heat  irons  by,  when  mother  has  a  job  of 
liueu   to   get   up.     Father   was  a  journeyman 


232  THACKERAY. 

bookbinder,  who  died  four  years  ago,  and  is 
buried  among  thousands  and  thousands  of  the 
nameless  dead  who  lie  crowding  the  black 
churchyard  of  St.  Timothy's  parish. 

The  Curate  evidently  took  especial  pride  in 
Victoria,  the  youngest  of  these  three  children 
of  the  charwoman,  and  caused  Betsy  to  fetch  a 
book  which  lay  at  the  window,  and  bade  her 
read.  It  was  a  Missionary  Register  which  the 
Curate  opened  hap-hazard,  and  this  baby  began 
to  read  out  in  an  exceedingly  clear  and  resolute 
voice  about  — 

"The  island  of  Raritongo  is  the  least  fre- 
quented of  all  the  Caribbean  Archipelago. 
Wankyfungo  is  at  four  leagues  S.  E.  by  E.,  and 
the  peak  of  the  crater  of  Shuagnahua  is  dis- 
tinctly visible.  The  *  Irascible '  entered  Rari- 
tongo Bay  on  the  evening  of  Thursday  29th, 
and  the  next  day  the  Rev.  Mr.  Flethers,  Mrs. 
Flethers,  and  their  nine  children,  and  Shang- 
pooky,  the  native  converted  at  Caeabawgo, 
landed  and  took  up  their  residence  at  the  house 
of  Ratatatua,  the  principal  Chief,  who  enter- 
tained us  with  yams  and  a  pig,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

"  Raritongo,  Wankyfungo,  Archipelago."  I 
protest  this  little  woman  read  off  each  of  these 
long  words  with  an  ease  which  perfectly  aston- 
ished me.     Many  a  lieutenant  in  her  Majesty's 


THE  curate's  walk.  233 

Heavies  would  be  puzzled  with  words  half  the 
length.  Whitestock,  by  way  of  reward  for  her 
scholarship,  gave  her  another  pat  on  the  head  ; 
having  received  which  present  with  a  courtesy, 
she  went  and  put  the  book  back  into  the  window, 
and  clambering  back  into  the  chair  resumed  the 
hemming  of  the  blue  duster. 

I  suppose  it  was  the  smallness  of  these  people, 
as  well  as  their  singular,  neat,  and  tidy  be- 
havior, which  interested  me  so.  Here  were 
three  creatures  not  so  high  as  the  table,  with 
all  the  labors,  duties,  and  cares  of  life  upon 
their  little  shoulders,  working  and  doing  their 
duty  like  the  biggest  of  my  readers  ;  regular, 
laborious,  cheerful  —  content  with  small  pit- 
tances, practicing  a  hundred  virtues  of  thrift 
and  order. 

Elizabeth,  at  ten  years  of  age,  might  walk 
out  of  this  house  and  take  the  command  of  a 
small  establishment.  She  can  wash,  get  up 
linen,  cook,  make  purchases,  and  buy  bargains. 
If  1  were  ten  years  old  and  three  feet  in  height 
I  would  marry  her,  and  we  would  go  and  live 
in  a  cupboard,  and  share  the  little  half-pint  pot 
for  dinner.  'Melia,  eight  years  of  age,  though 
inferior  in  accomplishments  to  her  sister,  is  her 
equal  in  size,  and  can  wash,  scrub,  hem,  go 
errands,  put  her  hand  to  the  diimer,  and  make 


234  THACKERAY. 

herself  generally  useful.  In  a  word,  she  is  fit 
to  be  a  little  housemaid,  and  to  make  every- 
thing but  the  beds,  which  she  cannot  as  yet 
reach  up  to.  As  for  Victoria's  qualifications, 
they  have  been  mentioned  before.  I  wonder 
whether  the  Princess  Alice  can  read  off  "  Rari- 
tongo,"  etc.,  as  glibly  as  this  surprising  little 
animal. 

I  asked  the  Curate's  permission  to  make 
these  young  ladies  a  present,  and  accordingly 
produced  the  sum  of  sixpence  to  be  divided 
amongst  the  three.  "  What  will  you  do  with 
it  ?  "  I  said,  laying  down  the  coin. 

They  answered,  all  three  at  once,  and  in  a 
little  chorus,  "  We  '11  give  it  to  mother."  This 
verdict  caused  the  disbursement  of  another  six- 
pence, and  it  was  explained  to  them  that  the 
sura  was  for  their  own  private  pleasures,  and 
each  was  called  upon  to  declare  what  she  would 
purchase. 

Elizabeth  says,  "  I  would  like  twopenn'orth 
of  meat,  if  you  please,  sir." 

'Melia :  "  Ha'porth  of  treacle,  three-far- 
things'-worth  of  milk,  and  the  same  of  fresh 
bread." 

Victoria,  speaking  very  quick,  and  gasping 
in  an  agitated  manner  :  "  Ha'pny  —  aha  — 
orange,  and  ha'pny  —  aha  —  apple,  and  ha'pny 


THE  curate's  walk.  235 

—  aha  —  treacle,  aud  —  and  "  —  here  her  im- 
agination failed  her.  She  did  not  know  what  to 
do  with  the  rest  of  the  money. 

At  this  'Melia  actually  interposed,  "  Suppose 
she  and  Victoria  subscribed  a  farthing  apiece 
out  of  their  money,  so  that  Betsy  might  have  a 
quarter  of  a  pound  of  meat  ?  "  She  added  that 
her  sister  wanted  it,  and  that  it  would  do  her 
good.  Upon  my  word,  she  made  the  proposal 
aud  the  calculations  in  an  instant,  and  all  of 
her  own  accord.  And  before  we  left  them, 
Betsy  had  put  on  the  queerest  little  black  shawl 
and  bonnet,  and  had  a  mug  and  a  basket  ready 
to  receive  the  purchases  in  question. 

Sedan  Buildings  has  a  particularly  friendly 
look  to  me  since  that  day.  Peace  be  with  you, 
O  thrifty,  kindly,  simple,  loving,  little  maidens  ! 
May  their  voyage  in  life  prosper  !  Think  of 
the  great  journey  before  them,  and  the  little 
cock-boat  manned  by  babies  venturing  over  the 
great  stormy  ocean. 

II. 

Following  the  steps  of  little  Betsy  with 
her  mug  and  basket,  as  she  goes  pattering 
down  the  street,  we  watch  her  into  a  grocer's 
shop,  where  a  startling  placard  with  "  Down 


236  THACKERAY. 

Again  !  "  written  on  it  announces  that  the 
Sugar  Market  is  still  in  a  depressed  condition 
—  and  where  she  no  doubt  negotiates  the  pur- 
chase of  a  certain  quantity  of  molasses.  A 
little  further  on,  in  Lawfeldt  Street,  is  Mr. 
Filch's  fine  silversmith's  shop,  where  a  man 
may  stand  for  a  half-hour  and  gaze  with  rav- 
ishment at  the  beautiful  gilt  cups  and  tank- 
ards, the  stunning  waistcoat  chains,  the  little 
white  cushions  laid  out  with  delightful  diamond 
pins,  gold  horseshoes  and  splinter-bars,  pearl 
owls,  turquoise  lizards  and  dragons,  enameled 
monkeys,  and  all  sorts  of  agreeable  monsters 
for  your  neck-cloth.  If  I  live  to  be  a  hundred, 
or  if  the  girl  of  my  heart  were  waiting  for  me 
at  the  corner  of  the  street,  I  never  could  pass 
Mr.  Filch's  shop  without  having  a  couple  of 
minutes'  good  stare  at  the  window.  I  like  to 
fancy  myself  dressed  up  in  some  of  the  jewelry. 
"  Spec,  you  rogue,"  I  say,  "  suppose  you  were 
to  get  leave  to  wear  three  or  four  of  those 
rings  on  your  fingers  ;  to  stick  that  opal,  round 
which  twists  a  brilliant  serpent  with  a  ruby 
head,  into  your  blue  satin  neck-cloth  ;  and  to 
sport  that  gold  jack- chain  on  your  waistcoat. 
You  might  walk  in  the  Park  with  that  black 
whalebone  prize-riding-whip,  which  has  a  head 
the  size  of  a  snuflc-box,  surmounted  with  a  sil- 


THE  curate's  walk.  237 

ver  jockey  on  a  silver  race-horse  ;  and  what  a 
sensation  you  woukl  create,  if  you  took  that 
large  ram's  horn  with  the  cairngorm  top  out  of 
your  pocket,  and  offered  a  pinch  of  rappee  to 
the  company  round  !  "  A  little  attorney's  clerk 
is  staring  in  at  the  window,  in  whose  mind  very 
similar  ideas  are  passing.  What  would  he  not 
give  to  wear  that  gold  pin  next  Sunday  in  his 
blue  hunting  neck-cloth?  The  ball  of  it  is 
almost  as  big  as  those  which  are  painted  over 
the  side  door  of  Mr,  Filch's  shop,  which  is 
down  that  passage  which  leads  into  Trotter's 
Court. 

I  have  dined  at  a  house  where  the  silver 
dishes  and  covers  came  from  Filch's,  let  out  to 
their  owner  by  Mr.  Filch  for  the  day,  and  in 
charge  of  the  grave-looking  man  whom  I  mis- 
took for  the  butler.  Butlers  and  ladies'-maids 
innumerable  have  audiences  of  Mr.  Filch  in  his 
back-parlor.  There  are  suits  of  jewels  which 
he  and  his  shop  have  known  for  a  half-century 
past,  so  often  have  they  been  pawned  to  him. 
When  we  read  in  the  Court  Journal  of  Lady 
Fitzball's  head-dress  of  lappets  and  superb 
diamonds,  it  is  because  the  jewels  get  a  day 
rule  from  Filch's,  and  come  back  to  his  iron 
box  as  soon  as  the  drawing-room  is  over. 
These  jewels  become  historical  among  pawn- 


238  THACKERAY. 

brokers.  It  was  here  that  Lady  Prigsby  brought 
her  diamonds  one  evening  of  last  year,  and  de- 
sired hurriedly  to  raise  two  thousand  pounds 
upon  them,  when  Filch  respectfully  pointed  out 
to  her  ladyship  that  she  had  pawned  the  stones 
already  to  his  comrade,  Mr.  Tubal,  of  Charing 
Cross.  And,  taking  his  hat,  and  putting  the 
case  under  his  arm,  he  went  with  her  ladyship 
to  the  hack-cab  in  which  she  had  driven  to 
Lawfeldt  Street,  entered  the  vehicle  with  her, 
and  they  drove  in  silence  to  the  back  entrance 
of  her  mansion  in  Monmouth  Square,  where 
Mr.  Tubal's  young  man  was  still  seated  in  the 
hall,  waiting  until  her  ladyship  should  be  un- 
dressed. 

We  walked  round  the  splendid  shining  shop 
and  down  the  passage,  which  would  be  dark 
but  that  the  gas-lit  door  is  always  swinging  to 
and  fro,  as  the  people  who  come  to  pawn  go  in 
and  out.  You  may  be  sure  there  is  a  gin-shop 
handy  to  all  pawnbrokers'. 

A  lean  man  in  a  dingy  dress  is  walking  lazily 
up  and  down  the  flags  of  Trotter's  Court.  His 
ragged  trousers  trail  in  the  slimy  mud  there. 
The  doors  of  the  pawnbroker's,  and  of  the  gin- 
shop  on  the  other  side,  are  banging  to  and  fro  : 
a  little  girl  comes  out  of  the  former,  with  a  tat- 
tered old  handkerchief,  and  goes  up  and  gives 


THE  curate's  walk.        239 

something  to  the  dingy  man.  It  is  ninepence, 
just  raised  on  his  waistcoat.  The  man  bids  the 
chikl  to  "  cut  away  home,"  and  when  she  is 
clear  out  of  the  court,  he  looks  at  us  with  a 
lurking  scowl  and  walks  into  the  gin-shop  doors, 
which  swing  always  opposite  the  pawnbroker's 
shop. 

Why  should  he  have  sent  the  waistcoast 
wrapped  in  that  ragged  old  cloth  ?  Why  should 
he  have  sent  the  child  into  the  pawnbroker's 
box,  and  not  have  gone  himself  ?  He  did  not 
choose  to  let  her  see  him  go  into  the  gin-shop 
—  why  drive  her  in  at  the  opposite  door  ?  The 
child  knows  well  enough  whither  he  is  gone. 
She  might  as  well  have  carried  an  old  waist- 
coat in  her  hand  through  the  street  as  a  ragged 
napkin.  A  sort  of  vanity,  you  see,  drapes  itself 
in  that  dirty  rag  ;  or  is  it  a  kind  of  debauched 
shame,  which  does  not  like  t«  go  naked  ?  The 
fancy  can  follow  the  poor  girl  up  the  black 
alley,  up  the  black  stairs,  into  the  bare  room, 
where  mother  and  children  are  starving,  while 
the  lazy  ragamuffin,  the  family  bully,  is  gone 
into  the  gin-shop  to  "  try  our  celebrated  Cream 
of  the  Valley,"  as  the  bill  in  red  letters  bids 
him. 

"  I  waited  in  this  court  the  other  day," 
Wliitestoek  said,  "  just  like  that  man,  wliile  a 


240  THACKERAY. 

friend  of  mine  went  in  to  take  her  husband's 
tools  out  of  pawn  —  an  honest  man  —  a  jour- 
neyman shoemaker,  who  lives  hard  by."  And 
we  went  to  call  on  the  journeyman  shoemaker 

—  Randle's  Buildings  —  two-pair  back  —  over 
a  blacking  manufactory.  The  blacking  was 
made  by  one  manufactor,  who  stood  before  a 
tub  stirring  up  his  produce,  a  good  deal  of 
which  —  and  nothing  else  —  was  on  the  floor. 
We  passed  through  this  emporium,  which  abut- 
ted on  a  dank,  steaming  little  court,  and  up  the 
narrow  stair  to  the  two-pair  back. 

The  shoemaker  was  at  work  with  his  recov- 
ered tools,  and  his  wife  was  making  women's 
shoes  (an  inferior  branch  of  the  business)  by 
him.  A  shriveled  child  was  lying  on  the  bed 
in  the  corner  of  the  room.  There  was  no  bed- 
stead, and  indeed  scarcely  any  furniture,  save 
the  little  table  on  which  lay  his  tools  and  shoes 

—  a  fair-haired,  lank,  handsome  young  man, 
with  a  wife  who  may  have  been  pretty  once,  in 
better  times,  and  before  starvation  pulled  her 
down.  She  had  but  one  thin  gown;  it  clung  to 
a  frightfully  emaciated  little  body. 

Their  story  was  the  old  one.  The  man  had 
been  in  good  work,  and  had  the  fever.  The 
clothes  had  been  pawned,  the  furniture  and 
bedstead  had  been  sold,  and  they  slept  on  the 


THE  curate's  walk.         241 

mattress  ;  the  mattress  went,  and  they  slept  on 
the  floor  ;  the  tools  went,  and  the  end  of  all 
things  seemed  at  hand,  when  the  gracious  appa- 
rition of  the  Curate  with  his  umbrella  came  and 
cheered  those  stricken-down  poor  folks. 

The  journeyman  shoemaker  must  have  been 
astonished  at  such  a  sight.  He  is  not,  or  was 
not,  a  church-goer.  He  is  a  man  of  "  advanced  " 
opinions  ;  believing  that  priests  are  hypocrites, 
and  that  clergymen  in  general  drive  about  in 
coaches-and-four,  and  eat  a  tithe-pig  a  day. 
This  proud  priest  got  Mr.  Crispin  a  bed  to  lie 
upon,  and  some  soup  to  eat ;  and  (being  the 
treasurer  of  certain  good  folks  of  his  parish, 
whose  charities  he  administers),  as  soon  as  the 
man  was  strong  enough  to  work,  the  Curate 
lent  him  money  wherewith  to  redeem  his  tools, 
and  which  our  friend  is  paying  back  by  install- 
ments at  this  day.  And  any  man  who  has  seen 
these  two  honest  men  talking  together  would 
have  said  the  shoemaker  was  the  haughtiest  of 
the  two. 

We  paid  one  more  morning  visit.  This  was 
with  an  order  for  work  to  a  tailor  of  reduced 
circumstances  and  enlarged  family.  He  had 
been  a  master,  and  was  now  forced  to  take 
work  by  the  job.  He  who  had  commanded 
many  men  was  now  fallen  down  to  the  ranks 


242  THACKERAY. 

again.  His  wife  told  us  all  about  his  misfor- 
tunes. She  is  evidently  very  proud  of  them. 
"He  failed  for  seven  thousand  pounds,"  the 
poor  woman  said,  three  or  four  times  during 
the  course  of  our  visit.  It  gave  her  husband 
a  sort  of  dignity  to  have  been  trusted  for  so 
much  money. 

The  Curate  must  have  heard  that  story  many 
times  to  which  he  now  listened  with  great 
patience  in  the  tailor's  house  —  a  large,  clean, 
dreary,  faint  -  looking  room,  smelling  of  pov- 
erty. Two  little  stunted,  yellow-headed  chil- 
dren, with  lean  pale  faces  and  large  protruding 
eyes,  were  at  the  window  staring  with  all  their 
might  at  Guy  Fawkes,  who  was  passing  in  the 
street,  and  making  a  great  clattering  and  shout- 
ing outside,  while  the  luckless  tailor's  wife  was 
prating  within  about  her  husband's  by-gone 
riches.  I  shall  not  in  a  hurry  forget  the  pic- 
ture. The  empty  room  in  a  dreary  background  ; 
the  tailor's  wife  in  brown,  stalking  up  and 
down  the  planks,  talking  endlessly  ;  the  sol- 
emn children  staring  out  of  the  window  as  the 
sunshine  fell  on  their  faces,  and  honest  White- 
stock  seated,  listening,  with  the  tails  of  his  coat 
through  the  chair. 

His  business  over  with  the  tailor,  we  start 
again.      Frank  Whitestock  trips  through  alley 


243 

after  alley,  never  getting  any  mud  on  his  boots, 
somehow,  and  his  white  neckcloth  making  a 
wonderful  shine  in  those  shady  places.  He  has 
all  sorts  of  acquaintance,  chiefly  amongst  the 
extreme  youth,  assembled  at  the  doors  or  about 
the  gutters.  There  was  one  small  person  oc- 
cupied in  emptying  one  of  these  rivulets  with 
an  oyster-shell,  for  the  purpose,  apparently,  of 
making  an  artificial  lake  in  a  hole  hard  by, 
whose  solitary  gravity  and  business  air  struck 
me  much,  while  the  Curate  was  very  deep  in 
conversation  with  a  small  coalman.  A  half 
dozen  of  her  comrades  were  congregated  round 
a  scraper  and  on  a  grating  hard  by,  playing 
with  a  mangy  little  puppy,  the  property  of  the 
Curate's  friend. 

I  know  it  is  wrong  to  give  large  sums  of 
money  away  promiscuously,  but  I  could  not 
help  dropping  a  penny  into  the  child's  oyster- 
shell,  as  she  came  forward  holding  it  before  her 
like  a  tray.  At  first  her  expression  was  one 
rather  of  wonder  than  of  pleasure  at  this  influx 
of  capital,  and  was  certainly  quite  worth  the 
small  charge  of  one  penny,  at  which  it  was  pur- 
chased. 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  seem  to  know 
what  steps  to  take  ;  but,  having  communed  in 
her  own  mind,  she  presently  resolved  to  turn 


244  THACKERAY. 

them  towards  a  neighboring  apple-stall,  in  the 
direction  of  which  she  went  without  a  single 
word  of  compliment  passing  between  us.  Now, 
the  children  round  the  scraper  were  witnesses 
to  the  transaction.  "  He  's  give  her  a  penny," 
one  remarked  to  another,  with  hopes  misera- 
bly disappointed  that  they  might  come  in  for 
a  similar  present. 

She  walked  on  to  the  apple-stall  meanwhile, 
holding  her  penny  behind  her.  And  what  did 
the  other  little  ones  do  ?  They  put  down  the 
puppy  as  if  it  had  been  so  much  dross.  And 
one  after  another  they  followed  the  penny-piece 
to  the  apple-stall. 


MODERN  CLASSICS. 

'Hie  Princess.   ) 

Maud.  >  Tennyson. 

Locksley  Hall. ) 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning.   An  Essay,  by  E.  C.  Stedma*». 

Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship.     Mrs.  Browning. 

Favorite  Poems.     Robert  Browning. 

Goethe.     An  Essay,  by  Carlyle. 


The  Tale. 
Favorite  Poems. 


Goethe. 


14.  Schiller     An  Essay,  by  Carlyle. 

The  Lay  of  the  Bell,  and  Fridolin.  )  s^-j^llb^ 
Favorite  Poems.  ) 

15.  Burns.    An  Essay,  by  Carlyle. 
Favorite  Poems,     Burns. 
Favorite  Poems.     Scott. 

16.  Byron.    An  Essay,  by  Macaulay. 
Favorite  Poems.     Byron. 
Favorite  Poems.     Hood. 

17.  Milton.    An  Essay,  by  Macaulay. 
L' Allegro,  II  Penseroso.     Milton. 

Elegy  m  a  Country  Churchyard,  etc.     Gray. 

18.  The  Deserted  Village,  etc.    Goldsmith. 
Favorite  Poems.     Cowper. 

Favorite  Poems.     Mrs.  Hemans. 

19.  Cliaracteristics.    Carlyle. 
Favorite  Poems.     Shelley. 

The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  etc.     Keats, 
so.   An  Essay  on  Man.  )  p_„„ 

Favorite  Poems,      j  ^^^^ 

Favorite  Poems.    Moore. 
SI    The  Choice  of  Books.     Carlylb. 

Essays  from  Elia.     Lamb. 

Favorite  Poems.     Southey. 
».    Spring.     1 

ir„r:    Thomson. 

Winter.    J 
«S    The  Pleasures  of  Hope.  )  Campbeu- 

Favonte  Poenr  ^  ) 

Pleasures  of  Wemory.     Rogers. 

See  page  opposite  inside  of  first  ca^ 


song?}^"-^  B     000  004  346 

Favorite  Poems.     Leigh  Hunt. 
2<v     Favorite  Poems.     Herbert. 

Favorite  Poems.     Collins,  Drvden,  Marvell. 

Favorite  Poems.     Herrick. 
2(x     Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  and  other  Poems.     Macau  lav. 

Lays  of  the  Scottish  Cavaliers.     Aytoun. 

27.  Favorite  Poems.     Charlrs  Kingsley. 
Favorite  Poems.     Owen  Meredith. 
Favorite  Poems.     Stedman. 

28.  Nathaniel  Hawthorne.     An  Essay,  by  Fields. 
Tales  of  the  White  Hills.    )  „ 

Legends  of  New  England.  /  Hawthorne. 

29.  Oliver  Cromwell.     Carlyle. 

A  Virtuoso's  Collection.  )  „ 

Legends  of  the  Province  House.  }  Hawthornb. 

30.  Favorite  Poems.  iHnrviP^ 
My  Hunt  after  "The  Captain."  )  ^^LMEi, 

31.  My  Garden  Acquaintance.  )  t  „  .„. . 
A  Moosehead  Journal.  [Lowell. 
The  Farmer's  Boy.     Bloomfield. 

32.  A  Day's  Pleasure.  | 
Buying  a  Horse. 

Flitting.  |-  Howells. 

The  Mouse. 

A  Year  in  a  Venetian  Palace.  J 
33-     Selections  from  the  Breakfast-Table  Series  and  froiB  Pages 
from  an  Old  Volume  of  Life.     Holmes. 
Tastefully  bound  and  stamped,  75  cents  each. 
•SCHOOL  EDITION,  neatly  and  substantially  bound  in  cloth, 
40  cents  each,  post-paid. 

A  pamphlet  containing  the  table  of  contents  of  each  vojume 
will  be  sent  to  any  address,  on  application. 

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